


we sweat it out in the streets of a runaway american dream

by darkavengerz (darkavenger)



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Humor, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:25:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deadpool's back in town and Peter seems to be the only one keeping an eye on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No particular timeframe. I'm pretty new to comics and this is my first time writing either of these characters so be gentle. With that in mind, any feedback is appreciated. Not much plot (at the moment).

It's a jerk move, and childish to the point that it's more like something Deadpool would do than him, but Peter really can't resist; with a deft flick, a jerk of the wrist, and a little bit of webbing the scarred merc's hotdog is yanked swiftly and neatly out of his hands and into Peter's own. Smirking, Peter takes a bite, watching for the reaction. Dinner and a show. For a moment, Deadpool is frozen, mouth still hanging open where he was about to take a bite and the confusion on his face is easy to read even from Peter's perch a yard or two above him, clinging to the wall. Peter's thankful for his more-than-human hearing when he catches Deadpool muttering, “Did you guys see that too or was it just me?”

Peter snickers, and Deadpool jumps, then looks up. Peter smirks and gives a little wave. It's fun to be the one getting the jump on Deadpool rather it being the other way round for once.

For once Deadpool reacts in a non-violent manner, looking actually kind of relieved. "Oh, hey it's you, great! For a moment we thought I was going crazy."

Peter rolls his eyes but refrains from saying anything on the grounds it would just be too easy.

The look of relief is soon replaced with something more murderous. "What gives anyway? I wasn't causing trouble, and if you're gonna kick me out of the city, you could at least have let me finish my food first."

"Oh, it wasn't because of anything you've done," Peter responds casually, "Not this time anyway. I stole your hotdog because I'm hungry."

"What?!" It's maybe a little mean, even if it is Deadpool he's messing with, because he sounds genuinely upset and betrayed, but so disproportionately so that Peter can't stop snickering. "I thought you were one of the good guys, since when did you go around robbing hapless citizens?"

Peter snorts at that and takes another bite out of the hotdog. Deadpool's eyes narrow. Peter smirks and smacks his lips obnoxiously, but he also tenses, ready to fight if the merc shows signs of becoming more unstable than usual. It would be just like Deadpool to go into a murderous rage over a hotdog. Still, Peter can't stop himself from goading the man a little more. " 're no' hap'ess o' a civilian," he says, muffled.

Deadpool seems to have no trouble translating though. "Oh yeah? Well, that's lucky, otherwise how would I be able to defend myself against your evil, hotdog-stealing ways?" His fingers twitch towards the gun at his waist.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Peter says, leaning back on his haunches, "or I'll forget about the hotdog and get round to actually kicking you out of the city."

It's a bit of a chance that Deadpool will listen, but either he's here on business he can't afford to get kicked out of the city for, or he's currently more concerned than usual about opening fire in a space with civilians. "You know, last time someone stole my food they got stabbed in the leg," Deadpool says conversationally.

Peter snorts and takes another bite, "And that's why you don't have friends, Wade."

It's only because his mask is still half-rolled up from where he was about to eat that Peter catches the way Deadpool's mouth turns down momentarily, as if he's genuinely hurt for a second, before the stupid shit-eating grin is plastered back on and the gratingly cheery talking starts up again. He might feel bad about the hurt Deadpool clearly is masking, if it wasn't for what the merc is saying.

"Yeah well, the jokes on you pal, because I never wash my hands."

Peter frowns, revolted, and pauses in eating. "You mean after going to the bathroom? Well, while that's disgusting I don't see how it matters since you're wearing gloves."

Deapool doesn't say anything, but his smirk grows, and for once the silence is worse than the talking.

"Tell me you don't," Peter groans, feeling sick, but it's Deadpool, of course he doesn't bother taking his gloves off when he goes to the bathroom. Peter's heard that he's been spotted doing his shopping in that suit.

"Hey, just be glad I didn't end up in a stall without toilet paper today."

"That is so unhygienic," Peter mutters, appetite gone.

"Hello, healing factor? It's not like I have worry about getting sick."

"You are sick," Peter growls, “and you can have the hotdog back.” He lets it drop, hoping it'll land on the merc's head.

Deadpool shrugs and steps easily out of the way, letting it splatter to the ground. "After you've had your mouth on it? No way, how do I know you're not contagious?"

Peter opens his mouth to retort that if anyone should be worrying about catching something, it's him, but he's interrupted.

"Hey, costumes! Either of you two gonna pick that up?"

He and Deadpool both turn. The newspaper vendor a couple of feet down the side-walk glares at both of them unrepentant and unafraid, arms crossed as he looks pointedly at the hotdog on the sidewalk. "Bad enough with youse tearing up the city every five minutes when you get in fights with each other, but now you're littering?"

"Let me guess, he sells The Bugle,” Peter mutters, then says louder, "Sorry, sorry, I'll get it." Another flick of his wrist and webbing and the hotdog is the trash-can. "There, I'm sorry, it won't happen again I promise."

"Good," grunts the vendor, somewhat mollified.

"Oh he says he's sorry now, but just wait, five minutes later and he'll be swinging out of here, leaving that white junk just hanging round the city, and what's that stuff made of anyway? You ask me, a better name would be Litter Bug." Deadpool leans against the wall, shaking his head in mock sadness.

"Heh, I like that, that's clever," the vendor nods, and Peter groans. With his luck that'll be tomorrow's headline. "You're alright, for a costume." The old man nods at Deadpool, then shuffles back to his stand, leaving Peter spluttering in disbelief.

"Here that, Spidey? 'Alright'. Ringing endorsement like that, I should put it in my testimonials." Deadpool is still leaning against the wall, arms crossed casually over his chest, idly watching the crowd bustling past. A few people give them odd looks and Peter winces, wondering what this is doing for his already tattered reputation.

"Look mom, it's Spider-Man!" A kid tugs at his mom's hand, pointing excitedly, and Peter smiles automatically, lifting a hand to wave. "Who's that with him?"

His mom is clearly not as thrilled, arms weighed down with shopping, and Peter is considering offering her a hand in an attempt to combine good deeds with good P.R. until he hears her distracted response. "Probably his sidekick darling, they're wearing matching costumes."

"Oh, cool!" The kid grins and waves at Deadpool, who is beaming like more of a loon than usual and waving enthusiastically.

"He's not -" Peter shouts, but the mom is already tugging the kid away, impatient to get home, and soon they're both lost in the crowds. Peter sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, dragging his mask back down over his mouth as he decides it's definitely time to leave.

"Hear that?" Deadpool crows, "She thought I was your sidekick! Wow, kinda like a sign or something huh? Like fate's trying to tell us something." He turns a weirdly hopeful face on Peter.

"Yeah," Peter retorts, "trying to tell me to leave before the Daily Bugle gets a picture of us together."

Deadpool's face falls, and it's kinda like kicking a puppy, or maybe more accurately a mange-ridden, fleabag mongrel, the kinda dog you know if you took home would piss on the carpet, bite the mail-man and unapologetically hump every visitor's leg.

"Fine, it's not like I wanted to be your sidekick anyway, me and the boxes work better alone." Maybe it's the healing factor, but Deadpool's recovery time from insults and slights is impressive. Peter squashes the too-noble-for-his-own-good part of him that makes him feel a little bad. Deadpool's dangerous and a killer, but he's also ugly and lonely and clearly not right in the head. "So I guess I'll be off then, been fun and all, hanging with you, but time is money and money makes the world go round or something..."

Deadpool starts to stroll away, still blathering on, pausing only to nod as if in consideration now and again.

"Not so fast, Deadpool." Peter drops lithely to the ground, following after the merc.

"Changed your mind about teaming-up? Too bad, too late now, that was a one time offer and you blew it mister."

"That's not what I -"

"No need to grovel, Spider-Boy!" Deadpool turns quickly, almost spins really, maybe even sorta pirouettes, and drapes a well-muscled arm over Peter's shoulder, which he shrugs off disgustedly, "The boxes say I should give you another chance, so stop crying, you're embarrassing us all!"

"Wade!" Peter growls, frustrated to the point he might actually start crying, "I'm not teaming up with you, I'm kicking you out of the city."

"Oh!" Deadpool droops visibly like a deflated balloon. "I thought you said you just stopped me to steal my hotdog?"

"I said that so you wouldn't make a scene, now I'm telling you to get out. There's enough crime in this city, we don't need you making things worse." Peter crosses his arms and tries to emit authority. It seems to work, even if he is several inches shorter than the other man. Deadpool pouts and scuffs a booted foot against the side-walk petulantly. "'S'not fair, haven't even done anything yet."

"Yet," Peter repeats grimly, "c'mon Deadpool, for once in your life, do the smart thing and just leave before I make you."

Deadpool shifts, bristling slightly at the implicit threat, and there's something dangerous in that slight movement that changes his demeanour from that of an annoying but mostly harmless irritant into that of a violent killer. Peter is reminded of how dangerous Deadpool is; not as fast as him, but fast nonetheless, and strong and far more casual about using deadly force. Peter is pretty sure Deadpool wouldn't _actually_ kill him, he's heard Deadpool's become reformed for a given value of reformed, but he's sure Deadpool would cheerfully stab or shot him with non-lethal force. Which. He would heal, but it would still hurt.

Still, better him than some innocent civilian, so Peter braces himself and readies his web-slingers pre-emptively. New Yorkers recognise the warning signs of a superhuman brawl brewing and clear off the sidewalks, a few of the more foolhardy gathering at a safe-ish distance to watch.

“You gonna make me? Put your money where your mouth is? Never understood that saying, I mean now that's unhygienic, money is filthy! I guess that's why if you have a lot they call ya filthy rich...”

Peter tries to tune him out. Normally, he's the loudmouth one in any fight and it's weird getting a taste of his own medicine. He hopes it's less obnoxious coming from him. It looks like a fight is inevitable now and he takes a couple of steps back, tired muscles tensing as he readies himself.

Deadpool clearly feeds off the attention of the gathering crowd. Peter is dreading the thought of going toe-to-toe with the mutated merc, but Deadpool is pretty much thrumming with anticipation, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, hands twitching by his sides as if he's trying to decide which weapon to use. A camera flashes in the crowd and Peter groans again.

"Smile for the camera, Spidey," Deadpool calls, mask stretching with the manic grin its concealing.

Peter opens his mouth, losing his temper, "Oh f--"

He's cut off by the wail of sirens in the distance and the dreadfully familiar sound of an explosion. Someone screams in the distance.

"Oh boy," Deadpool is standing on tiptoes, peering over the crowd with cheerful interest, "that doesn't sound good, huh? In fact, sounds like somebody could use help from a friendly man in spandex."

Peter sighs, but Deadpool is right, however annoying he is about it. "Last time I checked both of us fit that description,” he points out, “you going to make yourself useful?"

"Moi?" Deadpool gestures towards himself in mock disbelief, "nah, causing trouble is more my style." There's a slight edge to the words under the grating cheeriness.

Peter doesn't have time to argue or point out that Deadpool can't get offended about his reputation when it's as well-earned as his is, or that if he wants to prove he's capable of more than chaos, now is a perfect, gift-wrapped opportunity. "Fine," he says curtly, "if you don't feel you have any responsibility to help so be it." He pushes against the ground and leaps into the air, firing a webslinger and swinging away.

"Glad you understand!"

Peter shakes his head, disgusted and annoyed with himself for being a little upset. Of course Deadpool wasn't going to help, not for free anyway. What did the lives of a few people mean to him? He forced the merc out of his mind as he swung towards the noise and smoke, leaving Deadpool behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolverine drops by and finds Peter and Wade in an alley together. Sadly, they're not actually getting it on. Yet. Possible signs os a plot?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special guest appearance by Wolverine and the Human Torch. Sorry if I murdered anyone's character, still pretty new to comics. Hopefully it's funnier than I think it is. Some ableist insults used this chapter in reference to Deadpool, specifically related to mental illness and intelligence. Sorry there's not much spideypool yet, I really am going to get them together, in fact, that's pretty much the only plot point I am certain of.

By the time Peter gets to the scene of the explosion the fighting seems to have stopped. There is a reassuring lack of bodies and bloodstains, but plenty of property damage and some structural damage that's too unsafe to ignore.

 

"Some Hydra agents causing trouble," Johnny tells him as they help emergency services clear some of the debris, "nothing we couldn't handle, not," he punches Peter lightly on the shoulder, "that we couldn't have done with your help anyway. What happened? Not like you to miss a fight. Spidey-sense on the blink or something?"

"No," Peter grumbles, sending a stream of webbing out to catch some crumbling wall from tumbling onto the heads of the busily working firemen. A few stick a thumb up in appreciation and Peter smiles, feeling guilty he didn't get here in time to stop all this damage from happening. Not that he necessarily could have made that much of a difference, but it's gonna keep him up at night not knowing.

"Then what happened?" Johnny asks.

"Deadpool," Peter says, and from the snort it elicits that's explanation enough, but he elaborates.

"Wait, so you're telling me that lunatic's still running around the city?" Johnny says after Peter finishes.

"Yep," Peter hops up and sits on a sizeable chunk of rubble that's too big to move until they get help.

"Great."

"You're telling me. Still I haven't heard any screaming or sirens yet."

"Don't jinx it," Johnny laughs, "well, I'll let the others know to keep an eye out. Hopefully whatever he's here for isn't anything that's gonna cause us trouble."

"Is there anything that guy does that doesn't cause trouble?" Peter asks exasperated. His stomach gurgles, reminding him he still hasn't had something to eat yet. "Uh, will you guys be okay if I head off early?" He tries grinning winningly.

Johnny rolls his eyes but doesn't look too exasperated. "Jeez, Pete, you show up late, you leave early, keep this up and I'm going to think it's something personal."

"Aw, don't be like that, you know you're the only one for me," Peter jokes, and laughs. "I'd stick around but I haven't eaten all day."

"Excuses, excuses," Johnny waves him away good-naturedly.

"Thanks man," Peter says with real gratitude, before clearing out.

 

He goes to one of his hidden caches of civilian clothes that he keeps around the city and pulls them on over the suit. He'd head to his apartment, but the cupboards are bare and while he can't really afford to eat out the thought of having to buy and prepare something right now is too horrible to stomach. Instead, he makes for the closest fast food joint, which happens to be a Taco Bell. He doesn't eat Mexican that often, but right now he could probably have finished the hotdog he'd stolen off Deadpool.

He orders enchiladas, in the mood for something filling, mouth watering as he takes a seat with his food. It seems he's not the only one getting overly excited about food.

"Chimichanga! Chimichanga! Chimi-CHANGA!"

Someone's chanting the word over and over, and Peter groans as he recognises the voice. He swivels in his seat and spots Deadpool, conspicuous as ever in his costume. For a moment, Peter debates getting up now and changing into his costume so he can kick Deadpool out, but he's really hungry, and the guy's not actually killing anyone or breaking things, or guilty of anything really, beyond awful table manners and being annoyingly enthusiastic about Mexican food. Surreptitiously, he switches tables so he's facing Deadpool, deciding he'll keep an eye on him, but if Deadpool can manage to behave for five minutes, he'll wait until they've both eaten to do anything.

Deadpool's got a headstart on him, but Peter's starving and not in the mood to take the time to savour his food, so given his speedy consumption and the fact that Deadpool seems determined to eat his weight in tacos (not chimichangas, go figure) and also physically incapable of shutting up even to eat, Peter actually finishes before the merc. Good, he thinks, gives him a chance to get changed again and find a good place to wait for him. He might even get a chance to digest his food if Deadpool decides he does want churros for dessert, which is great because spider-powers are useless against indigestion.

 

Peter ends up waiting outside the restaurant for twenty minutes, long enough that he's starting to get fed up, thinking longingly of home. If he didn't bother with Deadpool, he could be at his apartment in five minutes, which'd give him enough time to have a quick nap before he goes out on patrol again tonight. Before he can succumb to the temptation, Deadpool exits the building.

No one runs out after him and there's no screaming so Peter figures he didn't do anything bad while he was outside. Swinging silently, he follows after the merc, taking care to remain out of direct sight. It might be unsporting to sneak up on Deadpool, but it's not like Wilson is known for playing fair either, and Peter isn't in the mood for the destruction and probable pain getting in a head-to-head fight with him would cause.

Up until now, Deadpool's been behaving pretty innocuously, but as he reaches the mouth of the alley between two storehouses, he looks around as if checking for people following, not neglecting to look up as well, and it's only Peter's spider-speed that saves him from being spotted, flattening himself against a window. Inside, a young boy playing with his toys looks up wide-eyed. Satisfied no one's following him, Deadpool darts into the alley, and Peter takes his chance, not willing to wait to see what Deadpool's up to and risk losing him to the darkness and the doors to secret dens and lairs he knows line alleys like this one.

He drops and aims, hitting Deadpool with double the amount of webbing he usually bothers with, not willing to take any chances.

"Oh jeez, that better be you Spidey, it's not everyone I let spray white goop all over me, least, not till they've bought me dinner first." Deadpool's wriggling, but the webbing's wrapped tight around him, plastering him to the wall.

Peter contemplates webbing Deadpool's mouth shut, but that'll make questioning the man even harder. “How come you're okay with me spraying you? On second thought, don't answer that, not sure I want to know."

"Does this stuff stain?" Deadpool has one hand free and it's reaching toward his boot, "if it does, I'm sending you the dry-cleaning bill!"

Peter smirks, "Good luck with that. I've barely got money to feed myself, let alone pay to clean your suits. Besides, I'm sure it's been stained by worse things before." He tsks disapprovingly, and with another quick flick of his wrist webs the knife concealed in the boot Deadpool was reaching for. "Any more sharp objects or explosive devices I should know about?"

"It's hard to keep track, wanna try a full-body cavity search and find out?" Deadpool fires back, but he stops struggling, which tells Peter however many more weapons he has on him, there's none he can reach right now.

"You're one of those people who actually enjoy getting stopped by airport security, don't you?"

"Hey, there's not that many people willing to get up close and personal with me so I take the thrills where I can get them."

Peter's glad Deadpool can't see behind his mask. Disgust and sympathy are currently battling for dominance on his face, and while he's sure Deadpool's used to both reactions, he's also sure he wouldn't appreciate either of them. "Right... anyway, if we could try and stay on topic for five minutes that'd be great. Unlike you, I don't get paid for this. What are you doing in New York?"

"Sight-seeing," Deadpool grins, "I know, I know. It's kinda touristy, but I figure you have to do it at least once, right?"

"Don't give me that. Why are you really here?" Peter was mostly certain Deadpool was lying about the tourist thing. Mostly.

Deadpool opens his mouth, and Peter prepares himself for something nonsensical, fatuous and/or profane, so he got of guard to hear, "Hey, Wolvie, how's it hanging? Sorry I was late to meet you, but I got caught up."

Peter turns, and is somewhat surprised to see Wolverine is actually there and not just a hallucination or distraction ploy. "Uh, hi," he offers slightly lamely. It's not that he dislikes Logan exactly, they fight together too often for Peter not to have learnt respect not just for Wolverine's fighting skills but also for the man himself too, but that still doesn't change the fact that he's a grumpy, overly hairy killer, whatever justifications he might make for what he does.

"Beginnin' to think you were put on this planet just to make my life harder," Wolverine growls, striding past Peter to cut Deadpool down.

"Thanks for the hand ol' buddy, ol' pal," Deadpool says, landing lightly on the ground and making a big deal of brushing down his suit, "I didn't get a chance to use the bathroom before I got webbed and I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold it in!"

"Yeah, well you're gonna have to hold it a little longer," Wolverine replies, then glances at Peter. "Spider-Man, I know you're pr'bly wondering what I'm doing with an idiot like him -"

"Hey, I resemble that remark!"

"- but you're just going to have to trust me that I wouldn't have got him involved if it wasn't necessary.”

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Peter asks, "What's so necessary you need to hire Deadpool? People don't pay him unless blood's going to be spilt."

"Actually, Wolvie's not paying me, this one's pro boner." Deadpool interjects, sliding the knife, from which he's mostly managed to peel the webbing, back into his boot.

"Pro bono, y'fool."

"I stand erect-ed."

"Do you wanna shut him up or shall I?" Wolverine snaps at Peter, letting his claws extend partially.

"I'll shut him up, your way is a little more messy." Peter readies his webshooter.

Deadpool holds up his hands in surrender, "Alright, alright, I'll shut up. Jeez, just tryin' to lighten the mood. I swear, it's like bathing in testosterone right now." He fans himself, "Actually, that'd explain a lot about Logan at least - that much hair ain't natural on nobody! You can tame the beast but you can't tame the hair?"

"Wade," Wolverine growls. Deadpool rolls his eyes but mimes locking his mouth and throwing away the key. The silence is worse than the ceaseless chatter, and Peter shifts uncomfortably as Wolverine stares him down. Finally, after a good minute of silence, Wolverine speaks. "Look, Pe- Spider-Man, I know you disagree with my methods. That's fine. You got your code, I got mine. But if you don't let me and Wade do what needs to be done, you'll have a lot more to worry about than those Hydra goons."

"Logan," Peter steps forward, almost pleading, "let me help. Whatever you're facing, killing isn't the answer."

Wolverine laughs roughly, humourlessly. "Oh, there's better ways to solve it, but better ways need better men. Still can't afford to have you get involved. As one Avenger to another, I'm asking you to trust me, I know what I'm doing."

"You're an Avenger, but how many other groups are you also a part of? How many groups and factions are you tied to right now? You're asking me to trust you when I don't even know how many ways your allegiance is split." Peter says, frustrated.

"I've got no ties to any group that ain't just tryin' to make this world a safer place," Wolverine replies.

Peter shakes his head, but in resignation rather than denial. "Fine. Do what you want."

The corners of Wolverine's lips curve up in a grim smile. "I always do."

Peter snorts, a sound half-laughter, half annoyance. "You sure do. Aw, get outta here. I've got better things to do than argue with someone as mule-headed as you."

"Don't we both." Wolverine nods, some of the tension in his frame relaxing. "C'mon, Wade."

"MMMMPH!"

It should be impossible, but Peter had almost forgotten about Deadpool during his conversation with Wolverine. They both turn to observe the red and black clad man jumping up and down and pointing insistently to his mouth.

"What the hell's that loon playing at now?" Wolverine asks wearily.

Peter shrugs. "I think he's trying to communicate?" he ventures, watching as Deadpool performs a sequence of hand movements and actions, like some bizarre game of charades. "Ooo, I know! Chunk from the Goonies."

Deadpool gives him the finger, then suddenly drops to the floor. Both Wolverine and Peter follow, dropping automatically into crouched positions, looking round for whatever threat set off Deadpool's alarms. Nothing. The alley is silent, empty, filled only by the vague smell of piss.

"Snap out of it, Wilson! I don't have time for your crazy ," Wolverine snarls, getting to his feet.

"Wow," Peter gives him a sarcastic slow clap, "what brilliant advice, ever considered an alternative career in psychiatry?"

Making what sounds like a muffled squeal, Deadpool holds up a hand triumphantly, thumb and finger pinched around something that is either invisible or that exists only inside Deadpool's deranged mind.

"You're kidding me," Peter says flatly as Deadpool raises his fingers to where his mouth would be behind the mask and mimes unlocking it.

"Phewww!" Deadpool lets out, gasping theatrically, "thought I'd lost the key then, and you have no idea how hard it is to get an invisible locksmith to come out on a Friday night."  
"Stop fooling around," Wolverine snaps, "we have work to do, or are you forgetting?"

Deadpool snaps to attention and gives a salute. While there's still an air of mockery to the movement that indefinable change takes place again, the one that sets Peter's spidey-sense screaming whenever he looks at Deadpool. "Lead on, boss-man."

"See you around, kid," Wolverine says to Peter, turning to go.

"Laters, nerd," Deadpool calls breezily, falling into step just behind Logan.

"Goodbye," Peter says, adding "and good riddance." under his breath. He begins to climb up the wall, impatient to be swinging across the city and leaving those two behind him, but he doesn't need superpowers to know this won't be the last he hears or sees of them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for violence and death, described in some detail.
> 
> This is really long o.0  
> I wanted to write from Deadpool's perspective but it's a bit of a challenge.  
> Sorry it took a while to update, I'm back at uni and it's kicking my arse.  
> All the standard disclaimers/apologies for any inconsistencies or deviations in characterisation apply. I'm working my way through comics, but I haven't been reading that long, which means I really would appreciate any feedback, any criticism, I don't mind how harsh (although if it's constructive that'd be a bonus).

It probably says something about his life that he always ends up in the sewers.

**It probably says we should get a better job.**

_Or at least start charging more,_ the other box chimes in.

**Or anything. We stopped charging Wolverine a while back, remember?**

_Curse our short term memory and philanthropic nature!_

"Shut up guys," Wade hisses, eyes narrowed as he squints into the darkness. It stinks worse than his suit had that time he'd had that dodgy curry and hadn't managed to make it to the little boy's room in time. "Don't you boxes know the first thing about sneaking?"

**We don't have to worry about being heard, we've been over this with you.**

_You do though_ , says the second box, Ya moron.

"Aw, shaddup!" Wade snarls. His voice echoes, bouncing off the curved walls of the sewer which magnify and multiply the sound until the air is filled with scores of Wades. The boxes fall silent, and so does he but it's too late.

"Hey, is somebody down here?" A voice calls out from the darkness. It's a male voice, adult, and almost entirely steady apart from the faint quaver at the end that gives away that the owner of the voice is actually bricking it. Most people would be. It's human nature to be scared of the dark.

Wade's not scared of the dark, because for a long while now he's been one of those things that go bump in the dark. Or more accurately, bang.

BANG!

"OW -- HOLY SHIT! Someone just shot me in the leg!" The voice howls.

**Leg? Getting sloppy aren't we?**

Light fills the tunnel; a flash-light. Stupid move by the second guy. He's still busy waiting for his eyes to adjust, fumbling with his free hand for his gun while Wade just aims for the light and shoots.

 **That one was not bad,** the first box says, grudgingly impressed.

The flash-light crashes to the floor as the second body slumps, sending light careening crazily around the tunnel, bouncing of the water and illuminating shards of the darkness for brief seconds. It reminds Wade of the time he lost control of a car whiling driving in the Alps and had ended up tumbling down a mountainside; the headlights ridiculously enough hadn't broken for the first thirty metres of so of the fall, which meant he'd been lucky enough to be able to see all the sharp pointy bits of the mountain he'd been about to hit on the way down.

Wade considers sharing this story with the first man as he wades (wades, heh heh) over to where he's lying in the water but the guy's too busy gibbering in fear to appreciate it, fingers fumbling his waist as he reaches too late for his weapon. Wade tuts disapprovingly, because didn't they teach you to keep pressure on gun wounds at evil minion camp any more? It's enough to make Wade think maybe he'd be doing him a favour by putting him down, but he's been trying to cut down on the bloody massacring of his enemies recently so instead he just whacks him on the head and drags him far enough out of the sewage that he won't drown.

 _That'd be a shit way to drown_ , a box adds, _literally._

Wade hums agreement, and moves past the two prone bodies. What had they been guarding, down here in the dark and smelly depths of NYC? Booty? Sure hope it was booty. Logan had probably told him, but Wade hadn't listened. Knowing what you were going up against was the number one way to ruin the fun of a mission.

"Is it just me or does the security around here suck serious ass?”

 **It is pretty odd,** the first box admits **, you're weren't particularly stealthy dropping those two mooks.**

"Hey, it's not like stealth was part of the briefing!"

 _Actually, it kinda was_ , the second box chimes in.

"Yeah, well, why the hell did Logan send me if he wanted this done on the quiet?"

**It's a mystery.**

_Not really, he can't just ask one of his little X-Men chums to do the kinda jobs he sends us on, can he?_

"Shush guys, I think I hear something!"

The boxes quieten. The sound of metal scraping against concrete became audible, and Wade looks around, identifying the origin of the noise; someone was lifting a trapdoor in the ceiling. Flourescent light spills down from above, along with something else that lands with a clink on the ground. The light cuts off abruptly as the door is dropped, the boom of its fall ominous.

"What d'ya think they dropped?" Wade wonders aloud, taking a cautious step back, "a present?"

The 'present' explodes. For a moment the sewer was lit if by an underground sun, then the force of the detonation hits Wade, a wave of heat and energy that slams him into the wall and burns the costume off him, along with most of his flesh. The heat and light and pain are unbearably intense but thankfully only last a mere couple of excruciatingly long moments. Wade passes out as his eyeballs boil in his skull and several of his bones shatter, but he's not out for long, coming round while his healing factor's still busy regrowing several layers of skin.

"Youch! That stung." He stands up unsteadily, nearly falling over as he realises most of his toes have yet to grow back.

 **Don't just stand around** , one of the boxes ordered, **they'll be down here in a minute to check what's going on.**

Wade nods and limps over to where the trapdoor was, passing several body parts along the way. "This guy had all the luck. I spare his life and then he gets blown-up by his own side? That's pretty low. He should complain to the union."

**Whoever this guys are, they're pretty merciless.**

"Well, I tried to do this hard way," Wade remarks, reaching for his katanas. Thankfully, his body had shielded them from harm. "Now it's time to take the easy way out and kill anyone who gets in my way!"

There are rungs set into the wall under the lid, and he clambers up them easily, leaning out to knock against the door.

There's a brief silence, then the scraping noise as someone pulls the lid back. "Who the hell's there?"

Before the person on the other side has a chance to shoot, stab or explode him again, Deadpool pulls himself up through the opening.

"Oh my god!" Someone screams, and Wade almost falls back down into the sewer, knocked off balance as a gunshot slams into his chest.

"Is this how you treat all your guests?" he asks, reaching over his shoulder to unsheathe his swords, "because honestly, if it is, I'm not surprised you don't get more visitors."

All five of the people in the room he's just entered stare at him in frozen panic. Two of them have the presence of mind to draw their guns at least, but they're holding them half-lowered, too busy gaping to shoot.

"What? You never seen a hideously scarred but hilariously funny merc with a couple of kick-ass katana before?"

 _You're naked_ , one of the boxes reminds him.

Wade shrugs, not overly bothered. It wasn't like any of these plebs were gonna live long enough to start cracking remarks about his appearance. He decides to make a start on the maiming while they were still distracted, picking for his first victim the guy whose eyes seemed to be stuck at crotch level, a horrified, sickened expression on his face. Wade doesn't appreciate that look being aimed at his genitals, thank you very much.

"Hey, bozo! My face is up here!" He runs him through with a sword. That seemed to break the trance his appearance had caused. Gunfire begins again, and Wade twists and dodges, grabbing one of the slower moving fighters with the intention of using her as a human shield. They don't even pause, just continue firing.

"Hey, hey! Is there no loyalty among thieves these days? Or low-level evil grunts for that matter?" Giving up on using the body for protection, Wade throws the corpse into one of the men, using the distraction as an opportunity to lop his head off.

"Who the hell are you?" One of the remaining fighters calls, while another scrambles panicked towards what looks like an intercom.

"The name's Deadpool, baby! I'd say remember the name, but you'll be dead in a few minutes so it doesn't matter."

 **I think that one's planning on calling for back-up** , one of the boxes points out.

"Bad minion!" Wade bends and prises a gun from the fingers of a corpse, rising fluidly in time to shoot the man about to call for help in the hand. His shriek sounds like someone has just stabbed a pig, and he falls to the ground, clutching his wrist and looking at the gap where his ring and pinky fingers used to be in horror.

The last man makes an executive decision and drops his weapon. "P-please don't k-kill me," he stammers.

Wade considers it, scratching his shoulder, itchy where the skin's still healing from a gunwound. "Eh, sure. I'm trying to cut down on the senseless slaughter, but I need you out of the way."

The man nods, jerking his head up and down so violently Wade is kinda surprised it doesn't fall off. "Th-thank -"

He cuts off the man's irritating and frankly embarrassing expression of gratitude by whacking him over the head.

"Well, that's one room of evil goons defeated!"

_What flavour of evil are we defeating this week? A.I.M? Hydra?_

"I dunno, costume's a bit less garish than HYDRAs, but it's got a cowl, so definitely evil."

**You're one to talk about garish...**

"Aw, shaddup!"

Somewhere, in distant part of a building, something explodes. Even underground, he feels the building shake and hears the alarms sound.

"What fortunate timing! A bomb going off in another part of the building, drawing attention and fire away from me! It's almost as if it were planned."

 _It was planned you idiot,_ one of the boxes reminds him.

 **By us, remember,** the other one finishes.

"Oh yeah! No wonder - angry stabby-hands could never come up with a ploy this cunning."

Gently, Wade turns the handle of the door, opening it a crack so he can peer into the hallway. "The coast is clear!" He lets himself into the corridor, running down it swiftly, ignoring the doors to either side, and then rns uup the stairs at the end.

There is another door at the top of the stairs, and beyond it a large high-ceilinged room, like a more furnished warehouse, filled with various pieces of machinery and wires, including a few tanks full of bubbling water.

**Well, this doesn't look at all suspicious.**

_They might just be giant jacuzzi?_

On this floor the sound of the alarms is a lot louder, and there are plenty of people running both towards and away from the smoke billowing from one corner.

"Right... what was it Logan wanted me to get again?" Wade scratched his head absent-mindedly with the butt of one of the guns he'd picked up. "Something about something... blah blah, loadsa growly dialogue, coupla threats..."

_Idiot._

"Hey, you boxes can shut up if you're not going to be helpful! I don't see you volunteering any information."

**Wolverine wanted you to find this box of genetic material. He said it would be in the main laboratory.**

"Oh! That was actually kinda useful, thank you yellow box!"

_You should probably hurry, this place looks like its gonna collapse._

**Told you we didn't need that much C-4.**

"And I'm telling you now what I told you then. Shaddup." Wade dives as a ceiling rafter chooses that moment to crash to the ground, lunging into a forward roll that carries him out of the way of that particular hazard. "Hey boxes, you happen to know where this lab is?"

**No. Sorry.**

"Eh, it's okay." Wade reached out and snags one of the panicked people running past, "Hey, you!"

"Let go of me!" The man struggles in his grip, eyes rolling terror-struck in his head, "We need to evacuate!"

"Yeah, well I need to know where the main lab is, so you tell me and I'll let you go. Pinky promise." The man is wearing the same dark cowl and black robes as the others, but something about his attitude gives him away as a lab-nerd and not another heavy. It might be the fact he'd nearly tripped over his feet while he was running, or that he'd evidently paused to pick up paperwork before trying to leave the building.

"H-hey, y-you don't work here," the man stutters, eyes widening as if he's only just realised he's being stopped by a naked man bearing guns and katana, and it's a good thing Wade's got a tight grip on him or he'd be collapsing to the floor, "Are you one of them?"

"One of who now?" Wade asked, cocking his head to one side, "I work alone, like the tough, morally questionable guy I am"

"The Avengers?" The man asks, but he doesn't sound so sure. Clearly Wade doesn't look like Avenger material.

"Those mooks are here?" Wade curses under his breath in fluent Norwegian.

**You did blow up part of their city, even if it is an evil bit.**

_Good plan, bro._

"Aw, shaddup!"

"M-m-me?"

"No! Not you. You talk. Where is the main lab?" Wade makes sure to enunciate nice and clearly.

The terrified man points to a door half-buried under rubble on the other side of the room. "C-can I go now?"

"Yeah, sure," Wade lets him go, then grabs his arm again, "Actually... there's one more thing you can do for me."

  


Turns out those robes were made out of a really itchy material as well as being a crime against fashion. Wade has to take another moment to hoist them up and scratch at his crotch.

**You could have stayed naked.**

_Unless you're worried about running into the Avengers and one of them getting an eyeful?_

Wade growls and tugs the cowl down until it's covering his face better. It's not because of that. He doesn't care what they think. He doesn't care that Iron Man would probably laugh, or that Captain America would probably give him one of those awful, sympathetic looks that were worse than a punch. He didn't care they all thought he was crazy and would think that him running around naked and blowing up a building was just Deadpool being Deadpool. Nope. He especially didn't care what that nerd Spider-Man might think.

He shoves viciously at the rubble blocking the door, pushing it out of way, careless of the cuts and scrapes he accumulates on his hands. Finally the door comes free. Once inside it doesn't take long to find what he'd been sent to destroy. After awhile, all the laboratories of evil organisations kinda look the same; lotsa bunsen burners and menacingly bubbling liquids, lotsa filing cabinets. "These goons might be evil, but they're organised. Heh. Organised crime."

The thing he's looking for turns out to be a box of vials containing things various tissue samples, genetic information belonging to various mutants and superheroes; Captain America's eyelash, Magneto's toenail clipping, that kinda thing. Wade's not surprised that Wolverine's testube contains a chunk of flesh. That guy gets ripped apart almost as much as he does. He destroys all the pieces quickly but methodically, using a bunsen burner and making sure there's nothing left of the samples but ash. He knows first hand the kind of trouble that can come from people messing around with super- and mutant genes.

It's as he's leaving the room that things go wrong. Outside the room is filled with smoke, fire steadily burning, rubble forming piles as the building comes apart. A section of the ceiling overhead collapses, and he curses, dives again, squeezing his eyes shut because he knows he's not going to make it this time, and it won't kill him but watching your insides get flattened like a pancake loses its charm eventually. He hits the ground and waits. Something hits him but it's not the ton of bricks he was expecting, and he finds himself being jerked out of the way of harm into the muscular grasp of Spider-Man, who swings them away.

“It's okay, you're safe!” Spider-Man says.

It occurs to Wade he's being rescued, which is a novel experience. He decides to make the most of it and wraps his arms around Spider-Man's waist, pressing again the lithe, muscular body. "Oh! My hero!"

"Deadpool?" Spider-Man sounds confused, but he's too busy dodging falling, burning debris to confirm his suspicions.

For a moment Wade's perplexed, then he remembers he's not wearing his signature, eye-catching costume. He grapples for a moment between the knee-jerk need to proclaim his identity and the desire to be held just a little bit longer. The desire for human (or is it spider?) contact wins out. "No? Deadpool, who's that? Never heard of him, sounds like a cool dude though, I bet he's -"

"Wade, it is you!" Spider-Man swings them out of the building and dumps him unceremoniously on the asphalt.

"Hey! You know my first name! Cool! I didn't realise, 'cause you're always calling me Deadpool, which is okay too I guess but -"

"Shut up." Spider-Man doesn't look amused, arms crossed over his body (his body that is every bit as deliciously muscled as it looks, Wade can now confirm, and that actually might make it worth the butt-kicking he's probably about to get). "What happened here, Deadpool? I didn't kick you out of town because Logan vouched for you but then part of the city gets blown up?"

"How come you assume it's my fault, huh? You don't know I did this." Wade huffs, scrambling up. He tugs his cowl down a little more self-conciously, remembering he doesn't have his mask.

 **Because it always is**.

"Shut up!"

"Talking to yourself again?" It's hard to tell under the mask but Spidey's voice is full of frustration. "Okay then Deadpool, was it your fault? Did you blow this building up."

"Well, yeah, but I had a good reason!"

"Go ahead, feel free to share with the class." Spider-Man stares him down.

Wade huffs, because it's not fair because he was actually doing good but its something good he's pretty sure he can't talk about because it'll get Logan in trouble. "They were killing kittens?" he tries, because surely no one would argue against him pulverising kitten-killers.

"Really? Is that the best lie you can come up with?"

 “No! Wait, wait, just give me a minute...” Wade tilts his head, thinking.

 “I didn't mean... oh forget it.”

 “What's going on here?”

 It's a voice filled with patriotism, a voice steady and reassuringly deep, but yet not too deep, a voice that's asking a question but manages to not sound uncertain. It's the voice of Captain America, who is appearing like a vision out of the smoke, where he's probably been busy checking that the police and firemen had everything under control, Iron Man and Luke Cage in tow.

“Hey Steve,” Wade waves enthusiastically, childhood hero-worship rising up again, “it is okay to call you Steve, right?”

“Is that Deadpool?” Steve sounds almost weary, and Wade tries not to take it too personally.

“You can totes call me Wade, I mean, well you can call me anything really -” 

**You're babbling.**

“I always babble, it's part of my charm.” There's a really large part of Wade that is fanboying super hard right now. Captain America and Spider-Man are both here. It's like one of his good dreams, except with everyone wearing more clothes. Also, they both look happier to be around him in his dream.

“What the hell is Wilson doing here?” Tony Stark sounds annoyed.

“Hey it's Deadpool to you, tin man.” Wade narrows his eyes menacingly, a wasted gesture since the cowl's covering his face. “Good to see you again, Powerman,” he nods to Luke Cage, “been a while since we teamed-up, huh?”

“I don't go by that name any more,” Cage growls, “and we were never a team.”

Wade snorts, and turns to leave, even though he's not deluded enough to think they're just going to let him walk out of here. “Fine, be like that guys. I didn't want to come to your lame little sleepover anyway. I bet you all just sit around and paint your nails and talk about your tragic backstories anyway.”

  **That sounds fun.**

  _He's right. We love painting our nails._

 He's not gone two steps when he's stopped by Spider-Man's hand on his shoulder, and he's impressed and distracted by the strength of the man's grip, capable of stopping him in his tracks one-handed. Wow, he could hold me down in bed easily.

  **Or up,** puts in one of the boxes dreamily, **do you think ceiling sex is physically possible?**

 I don't know, but I'd be willing to try.” Wade answers, picturing it, staring down at the hand that hasn't been hastily withdrawn even though Wade's done leaving.

  _For science!_

“Wade,” and there's a familiar frustration to the tone that means this isn't the first time Spider-Man's called his name to get his attention, “Wade, what were you doing here?”

“Definitely not fantasizing about having sex with you on the ceiling. Is that possible, by the way? Scientific curiosity.” Wade wishes Spider-Man wasn't one of those heroes with a secret identity, because cute as it is to watch a man in an arachnid-themed spandex suit get flustered, he bets he'd be even cuter under the mask. He's probably blushing right now.

Cap clears his throat a little awkwardly. “Not what we meant. Are you responsible for the explosion? The one which killed several people?”

Wade shifts uneasily. “Is this a trick question?”

 Cap actually looks disappointed. “I thought you were trying to stop killing people, Wade. Why did you attack this place?”

 Snorting, Cage says, “Deadpool's a merc. A crazy one at that. Maybe someone paid him to hit this place, maybe he just had an extra-violent crazy moment, who cares?”

“No, that's not it,” Spider-Man puts in, shifting unconsciously until he's slightly in front of Wade.

Wade notices. And he doesn't make anything of it, because he won't let himself think about it, but that's twice Spider-Man's moved to protect him.

  **And he even knew it was you he was protecting this time**.

“What? You got a better explanation?” Stark asks dismissively. Cage groans and mutters something about wanting to go home some time today, and even Cap looks like he doubts Spider-Man has anything to add.

“No -” Spider-Man begins.

 “Because there is no other damn reason!” Cage growls, and Stark nods his head in agreement.

“- but I bet Wolverine has.”

“What?” Cap frowns, “you think Logan knows something about Deadpool's motives?”

“I know he does,” Spider-Man says insistently, “Deadpool met with him the other day, and when I asked Logan why he wouldn't tell me.”

“And you didn't think to mention this to me?” Captain America's tone is cool now.

Spider-Man hangs his head like a scolded kid, an _aw-shucks_ gesture that makes Wade really curious as to how old he is anyway. “I thought Wolverine could handle it,” he says apologetically.

“I have no idea where you got that idea from, kid,” Stark says.

Spider-Man's shoulders slump a little. “This is all my fault. These people... all these deaths.”

“What? That's crazy talk, take it from me!” Wade blurts out, disbelieving, at the same time as Cap says solemnly, “You can't blame yourself.” and Stark groans, “That's not what we meant, Pe- Spider-Man.” Even Cage shakes his head and says, “This one's not on you.”

“Logan's... a bit of a loose cannon.” Cap says delicately.

“Where he anyway?” Cage asks, “he came with, and I saw him go into the building, but I haven't seen him since.”

“His cellphone's GPS says he's back at the tower,” Stark says.

“That, or he left his phone there again so you couldn't track him,” Cage points out.

Cap sighs, rubbing his jaw. “Alright. We've not going to get any sense out of Deadpool -”

“There's a surprise,” Stark mutters, and Wade thinks violent, stabby thought in his direction.

Cap frowns but doesn't actually correct him, “ - so let's all head back to the Tower and find out what's happened.”

“All of us?” Stark asks dubiously, eying Deadpool, “Even him?”

“Especially him,” Cap says firmly.

“Fine,” Stark grouses, waving a hand dismissively, “but if he breaks anything -”

“I'll keep an eye on him,” Spider-Man pipes up, fixing that steely grip back on Wade's shoulder, “I know you guys think this isn't my fault, but I feel like it's... he's my responsibility.”

“Is that like a pet name?” Wade asks, thrilling a little at the renewal of physical contact.

**Dude, that's really sad.**

_Even for us._

Wade ignores the boxes, grinning at the other Avengers, “So, who wants take-out?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadpool gets to visit the Avengers Tower and Steve confronts Wolverine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's only a couple of hours into Saturday, so it's only slightly later than I intended.

The only one who seems happy on the way back to the Tower is Deadpool, who doesn't stop his incessant talking, squirming excitedly in the seat of one of Tony's cars as if he's been invited back for movie night rather than because he's being held responsible for a whole lot of deaths, and they need to work out what the hell to do with him and with the information he may have been acting on Wolverine's orders. He's surprisingly compliant, although he insists on being the one to sit next to Peter, and every now and then he'll shoot Peter this _look_ , like a puppy that's been rescued last minute from the pound, and Peter doesn't even want to think what _that_ is about. The only time things look like they might turn ugly is when Tony makes a snarky comment about the robe Deadpool's wearing, and Deadpool tries to open the door while the car's still moving, claiming he just wants to go pick up a spare suit.

"No way," says Luke flatly, shaking his head. "I don't want you out of my sight."

“Personally, I'd be happy if I never saw you again,” Tony mutters.

Luke snickers, and Peter doesn't miss the way Deadpool tenses. His spidey-sense is going haywire, set-off by all this tension in an enclosed space. “Feeling's mutual, Stark. So how's about I make everyone happy and just head off?”

“You know we can't let you do that, Deadpool,” Steve says patiently.

Deadpool whines, and kicks the back of seat in front petulantly. “You could at least have the decency to let me pick up a suit. This thing itches like you don't wanna know, not to mention I'm currently commando, and while I'll be honest, I'm kinda liking the breeze, there's some _jiggling_ involved -”

“I can't believe I'm stuck in a car with this loon,” Tony growls mutinously, looking at Steve with resentment.

Deadpool shifts a little, and Peter jumps, nerves jangling. Deadpool notices and pats Peter's leg in what he supposes is meant to be a reassuring way, although the merc's hand strays a little too close to Peter's crotch for comfort. Peter would shift further away, but any more and he's going to end up in Luke's lap. “'s alright, Spidey, Iron Man just gets a little grouchy when he hasn't had any happy juice yet in the day,” Deadpool says in a purposefully loud whisper, then, raising his voice, “hey Tin Can, you ever get pulled over for drunk driving in that suit?”

Tony narrows his eyes, and Peter groans internally, sure this is the point where they both snap and start fighting with their fists and not just their words. It's down to Steve, as usual, to take control of the situation and derail the impending violence, placing a warning hand on Tony's shoulder that makes the man ease up and telling Deadpool warningly, “That's enough.”

“He started it!” The words are childish, but the tone is vicious, ugly, adult. Deadpool leans forward a little, and the cowl shifts, just enough that Peter catches a shadowy glimpse of mottled, uneven skin, an angry slash of a mouth tugged down in a scowl that twists already ugly features into something worse. Deadpool's hand twitches at his side, and Peter reacts instinctively.

“Enough, Deadpool!” He grabs the merc's wrist.

The man tenses, and for a moment Peter thinks he's just made things worse and that Deadpool is about to throw him through the wind-shield, but then the man's slumping back in his seat, fight going out of him. “Fine, but only because you asked so nicely sweet cheeks.”

“And don't call me that,” Peter grumbles, hastily letting go of Deadpool's wrist.

“Anything for you, baby boy,” Deadpool purrs, mood changing so fast Peter gets emotional whiplash as he drops an arm casually around Peter's shoulders.

Peter groans loudly, asking himself silently what he had done to deserve this, hunching his shoulders in an attempt to dislodge the unwelcome limb. He can hear Tony choking back a laugh, see Luke's smirking to his side, and even Cap looks a little amused by Peter's predicament. “Yeah guys, laugh it up,” he mutters bitterly, glaring at Tony, whom he feels especially betrayed by, seeing as it was the older man's inability to not verbally prod Deadpool that led to Peter making this sacrifice.

Thankfully, Peter doesn't have to put up with this invasion of his personal space much longer; the car's stopping as they draw up in front of the Avengers Tower, and Peter throws himself out of the car before it actually stops moving. Deadpool tumbles out after him, robe fluttering in the breeze, the others following as they exit the car more sedately.

Even Deadpool's animosity towards Tony Stark can't stop the merc from looking around with open wonder as they enter the building. Peter can understand; he still gets butterflies when he walks into the lobby. The architecture is comprised of a lot of glass and steel, giving everything a smooth, clean, professional look. It's the sort of space that looks nice but feels sterile, and if Peter didn't know Tony's quarters were a lot more homely he'd feel worried for the man who lives here.

“Nice place, huh?” he says, turning to Deadpool, but the man had slipped off while Peter was thinking, and was leaning against the glass reception desk, talking to the receptionist.

Peter groans and hurries over to rescue Julie; the poor woman's done nothing to deserve Deadpool, and even the kind of paycheck she must draw working for Tony won't be compensation enough if Deadpool is, as Peter thinks he is, flirting with her.

“-what d'ya say, huh sweetheart?” Deadpool rests his elbow on the desk, leaning his head on his fist as he looks down at Julie coyly, who looks back at him open-mouthed in horror. 

“Are – are you propositioning me?” she splutters, looking outraged.

“Whoa, babe, let's not get ahead of ourselves, I'm lookin' to pull, not get hitched!”

Peter spares a moment to be disgusted and horrified that he can spot Deadpool's flirting technique from across the room, then kicks Deadpool in the back of the knee. Hard. 

Deadpool lets out a decidedly high-pitched squeak as his legs crumple, elbow slipping on the glass as he drops, whacking his chin on the desk with a loud click before he catches himself and hauls himself upright. “DOWW! DI BID DY DONGUE!”

“What a shame,” Peter remarks unsympathetically, watching Deadpool cradle his chin. The cowl has slipped back on his head again, revealing the lower half of his face in all its gruesome glory, and Peter can see a dribble of blood escaping that grim mouth. Apologetically, Peter turns to Julie, “Sorry about that.”

“Ah, that's no problem,” Julie says, looking a little flustered, tissue in one hand as she tries to rub the formerly-pristine glass desk clear of the smudged prints Deadpool's left all over it. She blushes a little and says shyly, “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

There's something more than just simple gratitude in her words, and Peter flushes a little, because well, Julie's pretty, and nice, and used to superheroes, and he's been alone for a while now... “It was my pleasure,” he says, wondering whether he should ask her if she wants to go to dinner sometime.

“I hope my guests aren't bothering you, Julie,” Tony says, coming up to stand beside Peter, ignoring Deadpool, who is still mumbling incoherently to himself.

“Oh, no, well yes, but Spider-Man -” Julie stammers, blushing prettily as she glances at Peter.

“MMMPH!” Deadpool interjects, brandishing a vaguely threatening finger at Julie.

“He won't be staying long,” Tony says, giving Deadpool a dirty look, before directing a charming smile at Julie.

“Oh,” Julie says, not quite managing to hide her relief. Deadpool glares at her, and Peter wonders with exasperation why his interest in her has so quickly turned to animosity. “I was going to say, I thought he was on your 'call security immediately' list'.”

“Believe me, I wish I could,” Tony says, drily, placing a hand on Peter's shoulder as he politely pulls him away. “Now, you'll have to excuse us...”

“'Bye,” Peter says, glancing back at Julie wistfully. Deadpool stomps ahead of them to the elevator.

“Everyone all right? No major mishaps on the way to the elevator?” Steve asks a little wearily as they pile in. Luckily, Tony Stark's version of an elevator is large enough that it can accommodate them all without anyone having to stand too close to Deadpool.

“Everything's fine, just Deadpool demonstrating how not to get a date,” Peter says, rolling his eyes as the doors close.

“I was doin' okay 'till you kicked me,” Deadpool grumbles, wiping his mouth clean on a sleeve. “Not to worry, thanks to the trusty old healing factor, I'm back to good as new, you won't be deprived any longer of my dulcet tones.”

“Dulcet isn't how I'd choose to describe your voice,” Peter replies. “Gravelly and annoying would be my choice of words.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Deadpool coos, sidling closer.

“Get back,” Peter warns, “or I will kick you again, but not in the leg.”

“Did you get all jealous when ya saw me flirt with blondie downstairs? It's okay baby, she doesn't mean anything to me, you're the only one I wanna smooch with.”

Luke clears his throat as the elevator pings, “If you both could quit flirting, that'd be great.”

“What?” Peter splutters as the doors slid open.

“Don't even joke about that,” Tony agrees, exiting the elevator with a sigh of relief and heading straight to the kitchen, Luke just behind him. “Logan,” he calls a little louder, “we know you're here. Might as well come out and face it like a man.”

Down the hallway, the door that belongs to the room Wolverine stays in when he's in residence swings open, revealing the surly-faced man. “I wasn't hiding.”

“Hey,” Deadpool waggles his fingers. “Look who finally got an invite to the party tower!”

“Wade?” Logan asks with mild confusion, looking the merc up and down before raising a bushy eyebrow. “Fresh get-up.”

“Thanks, it was a real snatch too,” Deadpool says, smoothing the front of the robe.

“Well, I'm guessing your lack of surprise means you were aware Deadpool was back in town,” Steve says, looking at Logan with quiet disappointment.

Huffing out a breath, Logan nods, acknowledging Steve's implied question. “Yeah, I knew. I asked him to come by in fact, had somethin' I needed his help with.”

“Something you couldn't ask your team-mates for help with?” Steve asks, tone still steady but disapproving.

Logan remains silent for a moment, mouth screwed up as if he's trying to find the words to spit out. The tension is awful, and Peter feels the familiar urge to say something inappropriate to lighten the mood. “Wow, is it just me or is this awkward?” he blurts out.

“Totally awkward,” Deadpool agrees.

Steve and Logan turn to look at them as if they'd both forgotten they were there.

“Hey Logan, no hard feelings for telling on you, right?” Peter rambles, laughing a little nervously.

“And no hard feelings at me for messing the mission up, right?” Deadpool asks. “At least, no feelings where the physical expression of those feelings involves your claws and my face.”

Another beat of silence while the two older men seem to process their nervous babbling. Finally, Wolverine growls, “We're good, Spider-Man. I shouldn't have put you in that position. And you'll be forgiven so long as you didn't screw up _every_ part of the mission, Wade.”

“Sweet! 'Cause I totally managed to destroy all the genetic material.” Deadpool gushes, sounding relieved.

“Genetic material?” Steve asks, frowning. “What was that group doing with genetic material, and whose? We haven't had time to go through the wreckage yet, and we were more concerned with recovering the bodies, but I thought it was just your standard criminal base.”

“The organisation was small fry, but they'd managed to get their hands on some dangerous technology,” Logan answers grimly. “I figured they shouldn't get a chance to mess around with it, decided to wreck the operation before it could do any real harm.”

“Which is where I came in,” Deadpool interjects brightly. “Tada! Professional operation wrecker, not t'mention homewrecker.”

“Yeah, 'cept when I said I wanted them shut down, I didn't mention I wanted the building torn down and dozens of them dead!” Logan barks at Deadpool, before turning to Steve, an unusually reluctant expression on his whiskered face. “You know I don't like killin', Steve, and I try to avoid it, but this operation was too dangerous, it had to be dealt with -”

“By _you_?” Steve snaps, cool mask breaking as his anger bursts out. “There are dozens dead, Logan, they might be criminals, but they're dead because of you.”

“Actually,” Deadpool injects, “dead because of me. Technically. Credit where credit is due.”

Steve's jaw clenches, a muscle ticking, and Peter grabs Deadpool by the wrist again, deciding he should drag Deadpool away, not for the merc's sake, but so Steve doesn't have an aneurysm. “We'll go. You guys have a lot to talk about.”

“Don't let Deadpool leave the building,” Steve orders.

Peter narrowly restrains himself from clicking his heels and saluting. “Sure thing.”

Deadpool huffs, and digs his heels in as Peter starts to drag him away. “Hey, Captain I-think-I'm-so-great, I was actually doing you losers a favour!”

“Not the time, Wade,” Peter grits out, using his superior strength to pull Deadpool down the corridor.

“Hey,” Deadpool protests, “enough with the manhandling.”

Peter lets go, ready to grab Deadpool again if he starts back towards Steve and Logan, but the merc trots along behind Peter docilely enough. “I didn't say let go, we can hold hands if you want to!”

“Pass,” Peter says shortly, turning to walk into the kitchen. “Whoa!”

 Peter stops short; Tony is blocking the entrance, arms spread wide. “No, no, no,” Tony insists. “No. This is my kitchen. My _sanctuary_. He can't come in.”

“But -” Peter begins.

“No,” Tony repeats.

“You heard the man,” Luke calls, sat at the kitchen table.

Peter stares resentfully at both of them, “You guys are jerks, you know that?”

“Takes one to know one, kid,” Luke says nonchalantly, lifting a piece of toast to his mouth.

“Fine,” Peter grumbles, but he isn't leaving without something to salvage his pride.

“Hey!” Luke protests as his toast is yanked out of his hands.

“Later then, jerks,” Peter tosses out behind him as he walks off with the toast. Deadpool follows, throwing up a peace sign as he passes.

“Nice one, Spidey, we totally showed them. Who needs them and the stinkin' kitchen anyway?” Deadpool says cheerily as they get back in the elevator. “What do you say we blow this joint and go for hotdogs?”

“That sounds almost tempting,” Peter replies, pressing a button.

“Cool! So, you're game? If that's the case, then I have to tell you, you hit the wrong button, we want the first floor.”

“No, Deadpool,” Peter sighs, feeling his stomach rumble at the thought of food. “We can't leave the building.”

“I take it back, you're not cool, you're a nerd,” Deadpool grumbles. “So, where are we going then? I bet Stark's the kinda guy who has a hot-tub, or a jacuzzi, or both, he's rich enough. What say you and me go find out? No funny business, I promise, just the two of us, in a tub of hot, bubbly water, almost naked in your case, and respectably clothed in mine...”

“Sure, sounds cool,” Peter says brightly.

“Really?” Deadpool perks up.

“No,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. “We're going to the one of the labs. I want to check on a project.”

“Ugh, oh man, you really are a nerd.”

The doors ping, and Deadpool follows Peter out onto the floor of some of the lower-access labs that Tony lets him mess around in. Peter can't offer any real rebuttal to Deadpool because he's too busy geeking out. Most of his experiments until he met Tony Stark were carried out in high school labs, or in his own makeshift lab in the basement. Everything had been a case of make-do and manage with what he had and what he could afford on his paycheck after bills and other expenses. It had been fine, he'd managed, and he'd done well with what he had, but that didn't change the fact that he'd been operating under less than optimal conditions. It was interesting and exciting to learn what he could do in a real lab.

“Whatcha doin'?” Deadpool asks, watching as he goes to the workstation that's become his. He'd left the results of his last experiment in a couple of sealed containers, ready for him to work on the products when he next had free time.

“I doubt you'll care,” Peter says absently, getting out a couple of stirrers and some beakers. “It's all 'nerd' stuff.”

“Say it in English then,” Deadpool replies, crouching down and opening a cupboard.

Peter shrugs, “All right. I'm working on increasing the durability and elasticity of my webbing.”

“You and me both, big boy,” Deadpool says, emerging from the cupboard with a bunsen burner and tripod in hand.

“You asked,” Peter says, opening one of the containers and prodding at the viscous substance within. “What are you doing with that bunsen burner?” he asks warily, eyeing the man as he perches on the worktop across from Peter.

“Would you believe it if I said science?” Deadpool ask, attaching the rubber hose to the gas tap.

Peter twitches a little. Deadpool, gas and fire. Either the set-up to a fart joke, or a disaster waiting to happen. “No, but it would give me a laugh.”

“They got saucepans in this place?” Deadpool asks, fumbling in his pouches.

 "No. Let me guess, you just happen to have cooking supplies on you?” Peter asks, not at all surprised as Deadpool pulls out a can of hotdogs and some ketchup sachets.

“Be prepared, that's a motto I share with the Boy Scouts and evil lion tyrants,” Deadpool answers.

“Disney references? You didn't strike me as the type,” Peter comments, getting up and going over, abandoning his own experiment at the prospect of food.

“Hey, I'm a man of hidden depths, just waiting for the right person to plumb them,” Deadpool chuckles, the sound incongruously gleeful given the gravelly timbre of the sound Then again, Deadpool seems to delight in contradictions. “If you know what I mean.”

“Of course I do. You're making yet another sexual innuendo. You need to get some new material,” Peter says, bending down to get some beakers. “You're getting predictable. For example, right now you're looking at my butt, aren't you?”

“And what a nice butt it is.”

Peter straightens, flushing under his mask. He'd thought that maybe if he called attention to Deadpool's near-constant flirtation/light sexual harassment, the merc might stop. He should have known better. The man's grinning unrepentantly, stretching his pocked and ravaged skin wide as he does. He stops when he senses Peter's gaze is on the exposed half of his face and pulls the cowl lower, clearing his throat self-consciously.

“Here,” Peter says, setting the flasks on the worktop, feeling a little awkward for getting caught staring. “You can cook in these. I mean, normally I'd be a bit wary, because while Tony uses a dishwasher for his glassware, they are used with chemicals, but...”

“I've got a hardy constitution,” Deadpool finishes, setting up the tripod and gauze. Reaching to his ankle, he reaches under his robe to withdraw a knife and he stabs the can open. “Where's Wolverine when you need him huh? Have you ever seen that guy in the kitchen? Freaking cool.”

“It's unhygienic,” Peter corrects, giving up on getting any work down until he's eaten and pulling himself up to sit on the worktop with Deadpool. “You know where he puts those claws, right? Oh wait, I forgot I'm speaking to the guy who _wears_ _his gloves_ to the toilet.”

As they're speaking, a woman walks into the lab, before freezing as she realises its occupied, and hastily exiting. Peter frowns. It's not any of the lab technicians he recognises, or any of the people he's seen using the labs before, and it's not like Tony grants that many people access to labs in his own tower. He tries to shrug it off, but his senses are warning him something about this is off.

“Something up, boss?” Deadpool asks, eyes fixed on the door the woman had just come and gone through, and Peter knows it's not just him. Deadpool might be crazy in a lot of ways, but he's good at what he does, and that means knowing when trouble is brewing.

“Probably not,” Peter says softly, “but I'm going to go check. She might be lost.”

Deadpool snorts, “Yeah, because that's the kinda luck we have.”

“Stay here,” Peter orders, sliding off the table and heading to the door.

“What, and miss all the fun?” Deadpool asks, following.

Peter doesn't bother to argue, more focused on catching up with the woman and finding out what she's doing here. Most likely she is just lost, possibly even a member of cleaning staff he hasn't met yet. _Yeah right_ , says a voice that sounds oddly like Deadpool. “Well, that's the scariest thing that's happened today,” he mutters, stepping into the corridor.

“Talking to yourself? No worries, I say all the best people do, isn't that right boxes?”

It's empty, but she can't have gone far, and Peter moves down to the next lab, Deadpool at his heels. Jackpot. She's in the other lab, perched in front of one of the computers, typing. At the sound of the door opening, she straightens up, an undeniably guilty look on her face. Peter's bad feeling cements when she turns off the computer monitor.

“Hey,” he starts towards her, trying to project authority, “are you allowed to be in here?”

The woman moves quickly, almost superhumanly so, pulling a gun from under the labcoat she's wearing and firing. If it wasn't that Peter was moving out of the way before she actually pulled the trigger, he would have been shot. As it is, he feels the current as it whizzes past, the bang echoing through the lab along with a hoarse shout of _“NO!”_ that it takes Peter a moment to realise is coming from Deadpool and not from him. Despite the urgency of the situation, he spares a second to register surprise and appreciation at this display of concern, while yanking the gun out of the woman's hand with a spray of webbing.

“How's that for faster than a speeding bullet?” Peter asks, a little shakily, taking a step towards the now-disarmed woman.

“That. Was. Freaking. AWESOME!” Deadpool crows, pumping the air.

Deadpool's celebration may have been premature. Peter frowns. Despite the fact she is now unarmed, the woman doesn't seem too alarmed. Resigned, but not panicked. His spider-sense is still going crazy, but he can't tell why. He readies his webslinger, ready to wrap her up.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” she says, hand under her jacket, and Peter tenses, ready to move if she pulls another gun. Her voice is huskier than he'd expected.

“Oh yeah? Give us one good reason why we should be scared of a dumb broad like you?” Deadpool's got a gun in hand, but even so, Peter can't help but feel like they're outclassed.

“Oh, I've got a very good reason.” She twitches the labcoat aside to reveal something bulky strapped to her chest, wires running along the package.

Deadpool curses in a language Peter doesn't recognise. Despite himself, Peter takes a step back. His powers can do a lot, but they can't keep him alive through an explosion a bomb that size would generate. “What do you want?” he asks, trying to keep his voice calm.

The woman smiles, eyes glittering as she presses down on the detonator. “Your death.”

Time seems to collapse. A second stretches out into some indefinite time. Peter registers her pushing the detonator, triggering the bomb, while he stands by, useless to prevent it. He sees in slow-motion the explosion expand outwards, blossoming like a flower made of fire and death, oddly beautiful, feels the heat hit his face, then feels something more solid hit his side, knocking him to the floor, behind a table, insubstantial protection, feels another body drape over his, then the impact of the bomb hits and everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, cliffhanger.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for suicidal impulses (Deadpool). General warning for blood and violence.

Wades drifts back into consciousness slowly. Somewhere, at the back of his frazzled brain there's awareness of the agony he's currently experiencing, but he's pretty much always in constant pain so it doesn't really register right away. Not to mention, his brain always takes a little longer to mentally connect the dots when it’s been forced to completely regenerate, so the first thing he really thinks is; something smells good. Mmm... is someone having a barbeque?

**I think that's us.**

Voices! All mental systems back online and fully dysfunctional!

_Get up, idiot._

"What’s up?" Wade asks, sitting up, blinking tender, newly formed eyelids. He's surrounded by the debris of a laboratory, almost buried in it. He's lucky that nothing heavy fell on him or worse, in him. Had that happen before. 10/10, did not recommend. Even luckier, he seems to be sat on something soft. He looks down.

"Oh." Brain cells spark in the darkness of his mind, memories slowly start to filter through the sludge he calls a brain. "Aw crap."

Spidey's looking a little the worse for wear. It's hard to tell if he's okay under the blood that's stained the scarlet of his suit a deeper crimson, but Wade's pretty sure most of it belongs to him, not Spidey. Even so, that's probably not healthy or hygienic.

"Spider-Man? Deadpool?" A gruff voice calls through the wreckage. Beyond the room he's trapped in, Deadpool can see lights flicker on and off, fluorescent flashes that send the shadow of a man skittering out before him.

"Lassie, is that you girl?"

"Wade." There's relief under the annoyance in Wolverine's voice. "Is Pe- Spider-Man with you?"

"Yup."

"He alive?"

"I dunno, I'll ask." Wade prods the body cautiously, but that elicits no movement, let alone any indignant cries to get off. He tugs the other man's mask up slightly, just enough to expose the jugular and presses his fingers against it. "Yep, still alive, but not kicking right now."

"Good." There's the sound of rubble being torn away and tossed about. "I'm going to clear a way for you, then I need yer to get the kid the hell out of here. Cap and the others are busy fighting. There's more like the person that attacked you two, renegades from the operation we brought down."

"Sure thing, boss." Wade grabs Spidey, remembering belatedly to be gentle. "No problemo. Me and Spidey can play nurse."

**We do have the outfit.**

_Yeah, but not the medical expertise. You have to buy that separate._

**We've watched a lot of House though...**

"It's not lupus!" Wade lifts Spidey bridal style. It'd be a sweet moment if the superhero had been conscious.

**Of course it's not lupus you idiot.**

Wolverine grunts, dragging the last chunk of fallen ceiling out of the way. Plaster dust drifts down, but otherwise everything else is undisturbed. "Don't fuck this up, Wilson."

"I won't," Wade promises. "You picked the right guy for the job, I'm fully prepared to do whatever it takes, even give mouth-to-mouth."

"That's the last thing the poor bastard needs," Wolverine growls. "Just get lost and make sure he doesn't bleed out before the real help gets to him.

"Fine," Wade says, moving past to the corridor. His robes were mostly destroyed during the blast, and the tattered remains of them are doing nothing to preserve his modesty.

"And put some clothes on before he comes round!" Wolverine calls after him, "Or the poor bastard will wish he _had_ died."

"Up yours, furball," Wade calls back.

_Like he can talk_.

**Somehow he does get chicks though.**

_Must be that animal magnetism_.

**That and the fact Hugh Jackman plays him in the movies.**

Wade runs down the corridor, and takes the stairs, deciding not to risk the elevator. Spidey's limp in his arms, ominously quiet. It's making Wade antsy, making him babble nervously as he runs down the seemingly endless flights.

"Think I know where these stairs lead. How'd I know where to go, you ask? Well, I might've stolen some blueprints for this joint at some point. Need 'em too, this place is huge. Ever think Stark's compensating for something?"

Spidey unsurprisingly remains silent and still. It's awful, and utterly the opposite of how he should be. Wade keeps talking, refusing to think about whether the bomb-blast was too much, whether something's finally proven too much for bug-boy.

"So anyways, we're headed to the garage. Figure guy like Stark has gotta have some pretty sweet wheels, so how's about you and me take them for a spin, cupcake?"

Somewhere, up above, there’s another explosion that shakes the building to its foundations. Wade stumbles, nearly loses his footing, and has a vision of dropping Spider-Man down the stairs, the lithe little body tumbling down until it went splat at the bottom, too broken for Shield and all its agents to put back together again. His fingers tighten, grip firmer, and Wade pulls the other man closer against his chest. 

"If you could try to not die on me, that'd be really great. Like, I'd appreciate it. I’m not gonna lie, I’m a little unstable and I think having someone croak in my arms might push me over the edge.”

**We've had plenty of people die in our arms before.**

“Yeah, and it sucks everytime!”

**We've killed people with our bare hands before. Lotsa times.**

_Bare feet too, once._

**Dude, that was so gross.**

"Found bits of entrails between my toes for weeks." Wade acknowledges as he finally comes to the bottom of the stairs. "Still, this'd be even more mentally scarring than that, and that's saying something."

Grunting, he adjusts Spidey until he's holding him with one arm and yanks open the door. "Wowee,” he lets out a long whistle. “No, he's definitely overcompensating."

He shifts until Spidey's held more securely again, then moves, prowling among the sleek forms of the sports cars. "Which one do you think, eh? The red Cadillac, or the black? Black? Can't go wrong with a classic, I mean it's no monster truck, but I suppose it'll do."

They manage to drive away from the tower without any problems. From outside, Wade can see smoke billowing out from the fifth floor of the tower, and see all the security at the doors with all the employees huddled further back, peering up anxiously. No one seems too bothered about anyone trying to leave, so Wade just cruises by, keeping to the speed limit until he's a block away, then floors the engine, nearly running over two old biddies on their way back from getting matching blue rinses. He snickers, then remembers his cargo laid out in the backseat and eases down a little on the throttle, glancing back in the rear-view mirror to check Spidey hasn’t slid off the leather backseat.

The journey from the car to his apartment door goes fine. People in his neighbourhood mind their own business, which is one of the things that Wade likes about the location. That, and there's three Taco Bells in a five mile radius.

"Sorry about the mess," Wade grunts, shouldering the front door open, remembering to jerk back in time to miss the crossbow bolt that whizzes past. He doesn't bother to lock his apartment, yet for some reason he's never robbed. "Housekeeper hasn't been by in a few months, should fire that stupid hussy."

**We already did**.

_Nah, she took one look at the place and quit, remember?_

"Oh yeah, something about 'unacceptable working conditions' or some crap." Wade kicks a crumpled beer can out of his path. It hits something in a dark corner, something that squeaks and scurries away. "Score!"

The couch is covered in empty pizza boxes and bullet casings, so Wade moves to the bedroom. His 'bed' is at least clear if not clean, and he gently sets Spider-Man down. "And those were my last set of sheets without bloodstains."

**What do we do now?**

"I dunno, I was hoping you guys would have some idea." Wade mumbles, moving to the chest of drawers and pulling out some boxers and a mask.

_We’re fucked._

"Ah, it's cool. I'll just google it. I'm sure that'll give me some practical and reassuring advice." Wade scratched his head absently, “C’mon, I was in the Army, I must have had first aid training at some point.”

_Maybe it’d help if you actually knew what’s actually wrong with him._

“Yeah, I guess…” Wade stares at the stationary body, rocking back and forth on his heels as he gears himself up. “Okay. Well, I hope you didn’t forgo underwear today, Spidey.”

Gingerly, he moves over to the motionless body and crouches beside it. “I want it witnessed that I’m stripping him for medical examination reasons and not for ones of personal gratification.”

The suit’s stiff with dried blood, stuck to the skin in a lot of places, and Wade ends up cutting it away, careful not to nick the skin underneath. The torso that’s revealed is black and blue with bruises, and Wade sucks in a sympathetic hiss. Gently, he runs his hands lightly up and down the man’s sides, checking as clinically as he can the extent of the damage. “Lucky for you, Spidey, it seems like my body shielded you from too much damage.  How’s that for heroic, huh? You got a broken rib or two, but nothing that won’t heal in a couple of days, or however long it takes you plebs without my awesome healing factor to recover from broken bones.”

He finishes cutting away the rest of the costume. “Huh, boxers. For some reason I had you pegged as more of a briefs kinda guy.” Nothing is broken, and apart from a few minor cuts and gashes, which are already scabbed over and healing, there’s nothing wrong with the man. There’s nowhere left to check except the head. Wade deliberates for a moment about whether or not to remove the mask; normally he wouldn’t have any qualms about invading someone else’s privacy, secret identity or no, but physically pulling someone else’s mask just feels way more invasive than cutting away the suit had. “Boxes… any advice?”

_Unmask him,_ one suggests helpfully _, I wanna know what he looks like._

**Ooo, me too,** the other box chimes in.

“Ain’t one of you meant to try and persuade me not to? Like a little shoulder angel?”

_You really think one of us is angelic?_ The first box asks, terribly amused.

**That’s cute** , says the other box fondly.

“Aw shaddup,” Wade growls, straddling Spider-Man’s chest and hunkering down on his haunches so he can reach the mask. “Like I’d listen anyway, even if one of you tried to stop me.” He slides his fingers under the edge of the mask. “Let’s see who’s behind door number one.”

With a quick jerk, he pulls the mask off. “Well. Whoever you are, you’re not completely ugly in the facial region.”

_Understatement. He’s like Tobey Maguire levels of cute._

**I’d say he’s more Andrew Garfield level**.

“Yeah, well he’s definitely the best-looking person in the room,” Wade snaps, rocking back on his heels. He sneaks another look at the man laid out on his mattress, breath catching painfully in his throat at the sight. “Bitter, _bitter._ I never get to be the prettiest girl at the prom.”

He becomes aware he’s still holding the mask, scrunched up tightly in his closed fist, and forces his fingers to relax and let it drop onto Spider-Man’s bare chest. Quickly, he stands moving away from the man on the bed with long strides. His mood has darkened. “Try not to bleed out on that mattress, pretty boy.”

Wade grabs a beer on the way to the living room, then plops down on the couch, ignoring the rubbish and the spring poking through the fabric. Sticking a hand down the side, he rummages for a moment before pulling out the remote. He turns the television on, flicking through the channels listlessly, before stopping on the teleshopping channel.

_Feeling sorry for yourself, are we?_

“Shut up,” Wade mutters, turning the volume up. “Tryin’ to watch T.V.”

_No you’re not._

“Don’t tell me what I’m about!”

**Yeah, you know he loves this channel**.

“Damn straight,” Wade grunts, stretching out a hand and grabbing the closest pizza box. He opens the lid. “Winning! I thought I had a slice left.” He crams it in his mouth in one, not caring that the crust was soggy and the cheese congealed and hard.

_Okay, but he’s still avoiding thinking about why he’s so mad Spidey’s cuter than a bug._

“I’m not!”

**Liar, liar, pants on fire.**

“I’ll set you on fire!”

_In your head, remember?_

“Fine. I’ll set _me_ on fire.”

_You’d rather set yourself on fire than admit to yourself why you’re upset?_

**Duh, now that’s a no-brainer.**

_Is it because he’s out of you league? Because he was totally always out of your league._

**I don’t think we’re even in a league.**

“Shut up,” Wade snarls.

**_Make us._ **

Wade reaches for a gun, then remembers he’s not wearing his holsters. There’s a handgun on the crate that serves as a coffee table, and he leans forward, fingers scrabbling against the metal, trying to get enough traction to drag it close enough to grab. Silence, silence, he needs silence, needs peace of mind even, _ha_ , if it means making pieces of his mind.

_Did you actually think you had a chance? Did you really think that a guy like that, Spider-Man, would ever look twice at someone like us?_

“No,” Wade mutters, eyes squeezing shut.

_Good. Because even if he could look past how messed up we are on the outside…_

**… we’re even uglier on the inside**.

 

Waking up on a mattress with blood-stained sheets, in a room he didn’t recognise, naked except for his boxers, with dried blood coating his body, was probably up there in his top ten list of worst ways he’d ever woken up. At least, Peter thought, at least he wasn’t tied to the bed.

He sits up, and promptly realises that was a mistake. Every muscle in his body feels like it’s screaming at him. His chest feels like it’s been stomped on by Rhino. Worst of all, his mask is in his lap, which means it’s not covering his face. “Well, that’s just great,” he mutters, gingerly forcing himself to stand.

The room doesn’t seem like it’s designed to contain him; there’s an unbarred window that he could escape from even without his webslingers, given he can stick to walls, at least, he could if his legs didn’t appear to have the consistency of cooked spaghetti. Still, there’s an alarming amount of weaponry just casually stashed in the room that he could use – boxes upon boxes with the words ‘ammo’ and ‘gunz ‘n’ stuff’ scrawled on in a childish hand. Even more alarmingly, there’s what appears to be a half-inflated sex-doll propped up on the chair opposite the bed. Her wide vacant eyes seem to speak of horrors indescribable, mouth rounded in a silent scream to be put out of her misery.

“Oh, great,” Peter groans, letting his head fall into his hand, suddenly sure of whose room he’s in, whose bed he’s in. Memories slowly slot into place. The lab. Deadpool. Hotdogs. Woman. Bomb.

“Do my ears deceive me? Has our patient regained consciousness?” A screechy, false falsetto coos from the doorway.

Unwillingly, Peter lifts his head, and recoils in surprise. “Deadpool?”

“That’s Nurse Deadpool to you, sweetness.” Deadpool says, voice dropping back into his normal gravelly register and entering the room. He advances on Peter, who, despite himself, scoots further back on the bed.

 It’s not so much the that the nurse outfit is a decidedly female one, of the sexy variety rather than the practical; Peter’s seen Deadpool in dresses before, and honestly as far as quirks go, it’s one of the man’s more normal ones. It looks odd since he’s still wearing the Deadpool costume underneath it, but that too is a given. The thing that’s sending shivers of fear down Peter’s spine is the thermometer in the man’s hand.

“Keep that thing away from me,” Peter warns weakly, not entirely sure he’d be able to fight Deadpool off right now.

“How am I meant to take your temperature without it?” Deadpool asks, stepping onto the mattress and moving closer.

Peter scrambles backwards, but his back hits the wall.  “I don’t have a fever, Wade! I was in a bomb-blast, not a public bathroom!”

“Oh,” Deadpool seems disappointed, but, to Peter’s relief, prepared to listen to reason. “Guess we don’t need this then.” He chucks the thermometer over his shoulder before Peter can protest, and it shatters against a wall.

Peter relaxes fractionally. His hands fiddle with his mask still resting in his lap, and he debates whether it’s worth pulling it back on. It’s kinda a moot point given that Deadpool’s definitely seen his face, and quite a lot of the rest of his body. Feeling more than a little exposed, Peter pulls the sheet over his lap, aware Deadpool’s staring. It’s no secret that the merc’s more than a little fixated on him, for one reason or another. Peter clears his throat, “So, what happened to my suit? Bomb blast blow it off or…?”

“Nah, I cut it off,” Deadpool says conversationally, dropping down suddenly to sit cross-legged on the mattress opposite Peter, skirt flouncing as he does. “And honestly? That’s the first thing you ask? Not why am I alive? What happened after I passed out like the wussy superhero I am? Not, where did you get your wallpaper, I love what you’ve done with the place?”

“There is no wallpaper,” Peter points out.

“Exactly,” Deadpool exclaims, leaning forward confidentially. “Because wallpaper is the dumbest thing ever. It’s like wrapping paper for your walls.”

“Right,” Peter says slowly. “Well, sorry but the no-costume, not-wearing-a-mask question seemed the most pertinent.”

“Fine, you beautiful, boring man,” Deadpool waves a hand dismissively, “I’ll explain. You were unconscious for a really long time, and I was put in charge of making sure you didn’t kick the bucket, so I took your suit off so I could check you weren’t bleeding out from a crazy gut wound or something. Plus, your suit was all drenched, and I do mean _drenched_ , in blood and bits of flesh, mine by the way, from where I shielded your body with my own, you’re welcome.”

“Oh,” Peter says. “Well, that… makes a surprising amount of sense, and explains where all this blood came from.” He rubs a finger absently against his skin, watching as Deadpool’s dried blood flakes away, rust-red dust. He feels suddenly very queasy and in dire need of a shower.

“That it, Webhead? Not a thank you, gee Wade, that was really heroic.”

“Thank you,” Peter says automatically, then with more feeling. “Really Wade, thanks, I probably wouldn’t have survived that if you hadn’t done that. So thank you, I’m grateful.”

“Cool, so what does that gratitude translate to?” Deadpool leans forward slightly. The serious tone of his voice is at odds with his appearance.

“You want money?” Peter says, slightly disgusted and a little disappointed for some reason. “Well, good luck bud, I am _broke_. Like, you want to hear a joke? My bank account, that’s the punch line.”

“Woah, woah,” Deadpool protests. “Jump to conclusions much? Although, I’d be willing to accept payment in alternate currency…” He leers down at Peter.

“Not that grateful,” Peter says firmly, putting his hand in the centre of Deadpool’s chest and pushing back slightly. “Down boy.”

“Okay, okay fine,” Deadpool says. His tone seems a little nervous, “How about a kiss?”

“Are you serious?” Peter splutters, incredulous.

“No,” Deadpool, and that was definitely nerves making his voice shaky and gruffer than normal. “Haha, nonono. I’m joking, _obviously_ , duh, Deadpool. Like I’d wanna mack with someone like you, with those big brown eyes like frigging bambi, and freakishly soft looking lips – you use chapstick?”

“Yeah,” Peter admits automatically, brain scrambling to understand what Deadpool is saying, then flushes and adds, “they get really chapped otherwise, under the mask all the time, and swinging around – it’s not that strange.”

“Cherry flavour?” Deadpool leans closer, and for a panicked second Peter thinks Wade is actually going to kiss him and flinches back. Deadpool freezes, and even through the mask Peter can tell he’s hurt. “No need to panic, baby boy, I’ll back off, I can take a hint.”

“No you can’t,” Peter says, but he feels like a jerk because Deadpool -Wade - did save him, and even if getting blown-up is a semi-regular occurrence for the mercenary, it’s still kind of touching that he did so to protect Peter. “Okay, _fine_. No kissing, but we can hug.”

“Really?” Deadpool sounds so excited at the prospect that Peter thinks he’s made a mistake.

“Yeah,” Peter says. “But keep your hands above the waist.”

“Fine,” Deadpool agrees quickly. “But no time limit.”

“Fine,” Peter says. “Within reason.”

“Mine or yours?”

“Mine, Wade, you’re unreasonable.”

“So they say,” Wade agrees. There’s something oddly hesitant about him as he stares at Peter for a second, like he can’t quite believe this is actually happening.

 Maybe he can’t, Peter thinks, maybe he thinks he’s hallucinating again. Despite himself, he can’t stop the pang of sympathy that thought elicits, that someone could be so starved of human contact, they don’t even know what to do when it’s offered. As the seconds slid into minutes, it becomes clear Deadpool’s not going to move under his own steam. He’s frozen, fingers twisting in the hem of his nurse outfit.

Peter clears his throat a little awkwardly and opens his arms stiffly. “Did you want to cash that hug now or later? Because I have to warn you –“

He’s cut off by Deadpool flinging himself forward, and a second later he’s engulfed by two hundred pounds of extremely muscly Canadian. “ – the hug does have an expiry date,” Peter finishes a little lamely, patting Deadpool awkwardly on the back, then letting his arm rest lightly around the other man’s back.

The hug is uncomfortably close, and Peter is highly aware that he’s wearing just his boxer shorts. Wade’s arms are wound around his torso, the merc’s head tucked against his shoulder. Deadpool is extremely warm, slightly sweaty, more than a little smelly, and decidedly male. Despite this, despite the way Wade’s clinging onto him like an emotionally compromised limpet, Peter finds himself relaxing into the hug.

He tells himself it has nothing to do with who he’s hugging, that’s it’s human nature to crave and respond to physical contact, that after all the fear and pain he’s experienced it’s only natural to seek comfort with whoever he can, but the fact remains he feels safe here, like this. Not that he’d ever spared a thought to imagine what hugging Deadpool would be like, but if he had, he would never have imagined something this peaceful.

“So,” Peter says, quietly, unwilling to break the odd spell that’s fallen over both of them. “Is it just me or is this weirdly intimate?”

Wade exhales shakily, and Peter can feel the wet warmth of his breath against his skin. “Yeah, well, Spidey-baby, you’ve had my guts all over you, can’t get much more intimate than that.”

Peter snorts, lips curling up in a smile. “Yeah, thanks for the reminder. That’s seriously gross by the way, and I’m going to shower now.”

For once, Wade doesn’t need to be told twice. He hugs Peter tighter for a moment, then reluctantly pulls back. They’re still sat too close, knees touching, and it’s uncomfortable in a way it wasn’t when Peter couldn’t see Wade’s face, or rather his mask. “I thought it was romantic.”

“Yeah, well you have a twisted idea of romantic,” Peter says lightly, eager to break the mood, and it’s a sign of how wrong and upside-down things have gotten that he’s calling the weird tension between him and Wade a mood. He gets off the mattress and moves to the door, needing to put some distance between them. “Can I use your shower?”

“I don’t know, how strong’s your stomach?” Wade asks. The familiar joking tone is back, and it’s hard for Peter to tell whether he feels the same odd sense of loss at the end of the hug.

“Not strong enough to deal with having your guts painted over my skin,” Peter replies.

“Fair enough,” Wade gets up in a smooth, graceful motion and moves to the chest of drawers, pulling it open and tossing a too-large tshirt and sweatpants at Peter. “In that case, be my guest. If you need any help scrubbing in the shower, let me know.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Peter says drily, opening the door into the hallway.

“Door at the end,” Wade supplies helpfully, still sat on the mattress.

“Thanks,” Peter says, “for… everything.”

“No problem,” Wade says gruffly, scratching his head in awkward embarrassment. “Don’t mention it. Seriously. It would ruin my reputation.”

“I think you do a good enough job of that on your own,” Peter quips, then moves towards the bathroom as Wade jeers and gives him the finger.

The bathroom is every bit as gross as expected, but Peter barely even registers that as he closes the door and sinks down on the rim of the bath. What the hell was that about, he asks himself silently, but he doesn’t have an answer.


	6. Chapter 6

Eventually, Peter has to get out of the shower. For one thing, it’s shameful that he’s been debating staying in longer just to avoid the awkward fallout of The Hug (as he’s decided to refer to it, capital letters and all). He’s meant to be a hero after all, small children buy action figures of him, and  for another thing, the hot water cuts out only five minutes into his shower, five minutes of blissful heat and even water pressure and billows of steam (Peter has _got_ to get his shower fixed), cutting to an icy deluge that makes him yelp.

Shivering, he steps out onto the bare tiles, trying to not think about when or if Deadpool last cleaned them, and gratefully wraps himself in a towel. Please be clean, he begs silently, as he dries himself off, and dresses in the clothes Deadpool gave him. The sweatpants are too big, and he has to roll them up at the waist to prevent them from falling down, but thankfully the t-shirt swamps him enough that his modesty, if not his dignity, will be preserved, even if they fall down around his ankles.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Peter flushes. The clothes make him look smaller than he is, obviously meant for someone larger, and it reminds him of the times Gwen or MJ would borrow his hoodies. _Does that make me the girl in this scenario? But Deadpool’s the one in the dress… And hang on, wouldn’t that make him the boyfriend?!_ Peter’s internal monologue goes scarily silent after this thought, as Peter is forced to realise that, jokingly or otherwise, he’s put Deadpool and boyfriend together in the same sentence _.  Let’s never mention this to anyone_ , he thinks, hastily moving away from the mirror and leaving the bathroom before he gets too freaked out and tries to jump out the window.

In the hallway, he pauses, disorientated as he realises that since he woke up already in the apartment, he doesn’t actually know the layout of the place. Still, he follows the muffled sound of the television down the hallway, padding softly into the living room. It’s dark inside, the only light that of the TV, a flickering, sickly-pale light that paints the shadows black against the walls. The volume’s turned down to comforting drone, channel set to some Spanish soap opera.

“That you, Spidey?” Deadpool’s voice asks, coming from the sofa, and the sound is rougher than normal. Peter realises the merc was probably asleep before he walked in.

“Yeah,” Peter says, stepping forward a little awkwardly so he can see Deadpool sprawled out, head raised from where it’s been laid on the arm of the couch. “Sorry if I woke you,” he adds a little lamely, defaulting back to the good manners Aunt May’s worked so hard to distil in him, at a loss for how else to behave.

“Eh, don’t worry about it.” Deadpool yawns, sitting up and stretching. He freezes mid-stretch, looking Peter up and done appreciatively.

Peter shifts on his feet and scowls, wishing he had a mask to hide behind. Right now, he feels like he’s just Peter Parker, while Deadpool, in his costume, is part of the other world, the superhuman world that Peter tries to keep separate from his real-life persona. Deadpool is seeing _him_ right now, not Spider-Man. “Have I got something on my face?”

“Not today,” Deadpool answers, sounding unwarrantedly pleased, then slyly, “clothes fit okay then?”

Peter grinds his teeth a little, not wanting the reminder that he’s wearing Deadpool’s cast-offs, or needing to hear the lazy approval in the other man’s tone as he looks him up and down, as if he likes what he sees. “They’ll have to do for now I guess. A little baggy, but then I guess that’s to be expected seeing as I don’t live on takeout.”

“You calling me a lardass?” Deadpool asks, “Baby, I’m nothing but muscle.” He flexes his guns pointedly.

“Yeah, well, whatever helps you sleep at night.” Peter rolls his eyes, determinedly unimpressed.

“So. Uh, you wanna watch TV?” Deadpool asks.

“Um, I was actually thinking I might head home now,” Peter says slowly, “maybe swing by and see how the others are getting on, then go to bed. Nearly dying really takes it out of a guy, you know…”

“I dunno, you get the hang of it eventually,” Deadpool says dismissively, “practise makes perfect after all.”

“I think I’ll leave death to the experts,” Peter says, turning towards the doorway. “Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Don’t have any,” Deadpool says, getting up. “Hey, I’ll see you out. Never know, you might get ambushed on the way to the front door, and where would you be without me to protect you?”

“Gosh, I don’t know. Maybe I should start carrying mace.”

“D’you want me to walk you home? Don’t want you getting mugged or something.” Deadpool trails forlornly after Peter as he goes to the front door.

“Somehow I think I’ll manage,” Peter says.

“This is goodbye then,” Deadpool says, sounding oddly despondent as Peter steps out of the apartment. “Thanks for stopping by, we hope you enjoyed your stay at chez Deadpool.”

“I’ll leave a yelp review,” Peter says, feeling slightly conflicted, because he’s glad to leave, wants to see the back of Deadpool and to try and forget about this whole hellish night, but Deadpool’s looking as let-down as a kid the day after Christmas, once all the wrapping paper’s been ripped off and the sugar rush from too much candy has faded. “And thanks again for the whole life-saving thing. I uh, appreciate it.”

“Ah, don’t sweat it. No skin off my nose. Well, actually, it took all the skin off my nose, as well as most of the rest of me, and several layers of flesh, but…” Deadpool trails off mid-ramble, and clears his throat.  “Anyway, that’s not important. I should let you get going.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, “don’t want to outstay my welcome.”

“Hey, hey. You’re always welcome. Feel free to drop by anytime. I do mean anytime – night, day, six in the am (but you have to bring breakfast foods if you’re going to do that), lunch time, bath time, bed time…”

“I get the idea,” Peter says, cutting him off.

“So, you’ll come by? Great!” Deadpool bounces, clapping his hands in glee. “Oh, think of all the fun we’ll have together - you, me, the voices in my head - I’m so happy I could die! Scratch that, I’m so happy I don’t _want_ to die. I mean, sure, Death is great and all, but I don’t see much of a future with her…”

“Woah, hold on, I never said I’d come over,” Peter protests, but it’s already too late, and he knows it.

“Yeah, but you never said you _wouldn’t_ come over,” Deadpool argues triumphantly.

“Look, I have a lot on at the moment,” Peter begins. He’s practised at giving people the brush-off, hasn’t had much choice but to get good at it since being a superhero really cuts into your spare time, not to mention the time that you haven’t got spare, the time you should be spending on other commitments like going on a date with your girlfriend once in a while, visiting your elderly aunt, or even actually going to work so you don’t get fired from every job you manage to land. “

“Yeah, like I’ve never heard this one before,” Deadpool says bitterly, interrupting before Peter can really get in full-swing. “Let me guess, it’s not me, it’s you, but if we’re being honest, _it’s me_.”

“It’s not like that,” Peter tries lamely, but Deadpool just scoffs.

“What, you think I don’t know what rejection sounds like when I hear it? You know, when I was born, the nurse tried to hand me to my mother and she said she wanted a refund!”

“Is that true?” Peter asks, perhaps unwisely.

“Yes! No. Maybe. Does it matter?” Deadpool leans against the doorframe and glares coldly. “Maybe that’s not exactly how it happened but that’s how it’s _been_ my whole life. I don’t expect you to understand what that’s like, to have everyone hating on you.”

Peter huffs out a laugh, but he’s not that amused. “Oh yeah, because I’m winning all the popularity contests. You ever pick up a copy of The Bugle? Because I have, and I gotta hand it to them, they come up with some inventive ways to slander me week after week. And it’s not just public opinion, I could live with it if it was just people I didn’t know who thought bad stuff about Spider-Man, but there are people I know, people I love who hate him, or worse – fear him, people who I can’t bear to lose. Which is why I keep who I am a secret,” he adds pointedly.

“Huh,” Deadpool says slowly, staring thoughtfully, and Peter flushes at the speculation in that gaze. He hadn’t meant to get so heated. “I won’t blab about your secret identity, not that I could really, I mean you’re cute and all, but there are plenty of cute brunettes in New York, it’s wouldn’t exactly narrow it down even if I did talk. ‘Sides, I’ll probably forget what you look like in a week or so, memory ain’t what it used to me, think maybe something important got busted up one of the times my head got split like a melon. Not that I want to forget you,” Deadpool adds quietly, almost under his breath, and Peter gets the feeling he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“Look,” Peter begins, giving in to what he’s always thought of as the nice streak in him, but which he’s starting to suspect is just a masochistic streak a mile wide, “ if I get the time, maybe I’ll drop by, although if I hear you’re killing people or causing trouble, it won’t be a social call.”

“Really? Sah-weet!” Deadpool crows, pumping his arm. ”I knew you couldn’t resist my charms forever.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely why I’m agreeing and not because you begged,” Peter says, before he finally, finally is able to leave.

 

Peter doesn’t bother stopping by the Avengers’ Tower on the way home. He figures they can handle this one on their own, and anyway, he’s too tired to think he’d be any good in a fight. He’s never been so glad to see the inside of his own apartment before, and he nearly gives in and just crawls into his bed, but he’s a responsible adult damn it, and he knows he needs to let the others know that neither the bomb blast nor Deadpool have killed him or done any lasting damage, apart from maybe some psychological scarring from everything that happened with Deadpool.

His answering machine shows he has five messages, and he lets them play as he makes himself some cereal. The first two are from Tony, calling to see if he got home okay and telling him to call in when he does get back, the next three from Aunt May, each sounding more alarmed than the other. Peter gulps down the last of the milk in his bowl guiltily. He had hoped that Aunt May wouldn’t have heard about the explosion at the Tower, and wouldn’t be worrying about him. He sends Tony a quick text telling him he’s fine, then rings Aunt May.

The phone barely gets a chance to ring before she picks up. “Oh Peter, thank God, I was so worried when I saw what happened on the news.”

“I’m okay,” Peter says reassuringly, “I got out fine.”

“Oh, I’m so glad dear,” she says, “I phoned Tony and spoke to him, and he told me you’d been hurt but that you were okay and in safe hands, but then he was very vague about when you’d be home, and I had a bad feeling he wasn’t being completely truthful with me.”

“He was,” Peter tells her soothingly, moving to sit down in his armchair. “I’m totally fine now.” _Not entirely sure I’d agree with the being in safe hands bit, but no need to tell her that._

“Are you sure? I know you Peter, I know you try and keep things from me so I won’t worry, because you don’t think I can handle them, but I’ve been worrying about you since you were a little boy, I’m not going to stop now just because you’ve got taller and can stick to walls.”

Peter smiles fondly at that, “I love you too, Aunt May.” He pauses, considering. He doesn’t like lying to her, she’s his only family, the woman who raised him, it just doesn’t seem right. “I am fine, I wasn’t lying about that, so please don’t worry. I was caught in the explosion, but someone I was with rescued me _.” Feels weird saying that_ , _normally I’m the one doing the rescuing._

“Oh Peter!” He winces, wondering if he made a mistake in telling Aunt May. “How can I not worry? You could have been killed!”

“But I wasn’t,” Peter presses, using his most reassuring tone.

“Do you need me to come round and look after you?”

Peter chuckles, stretching out, “No, I’ll manage Aunt May. You just take care of yourself.”

She sighs heavily into the phone, and he can sense the worry and exasperation in the sound. “If you’re sure… Who was it who saved you? Was it Tony? I should phone him up and thank him.”

“No, it wasn’t Tony,” Peter answers, absently readjusting the cushions under him. “Not this time.”

“Who was it then?” Aunt May asks. “Was it Captain America?” Her voice goes a little quavery with emotion as she talks about the hero, “He’s such a good man, that Mr Rogers.”

“It wasn’t the Cap either,” Peter answers honestly, debating how to tell her he owes his life to a no-good mercenary, a super-powered killer whose moral compass is more out of whack than his mind.

“Who was it then?” Aunt May asks. “I’d like to know who I have to thank for your well-being, Peter.”

“It was just another superhero,” Peter answers, deciding not to try and explain Deadpool to his elderly aunt. “He’s not on the team, he just happened to be around.”

“Thank God he was,” Aunt May replies, fervently. “I’d like to thank him Peter – personally.”

“What?” Peter splutters, sitting up and wincing as he does. Some ribs feel bruised, like they’ve not quite healed. “I mean, you do?” He tries to not sound too alarmed by the prospect, not wanting Aunt May to wonder if there’s a reason he doesn’t want her to meet his rescuer.  “I don’t know about that, Aunt May, he’s… a bit different. There’s  reason he doesn’t work as part of a team usually. He doesn’t know who I am – I mean, who Spider-Man is, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Well, if he’s another superhero I don’t see why him coming over would be a problem,” Aunt May says. “I know you think I need to be shielded from things, but I’m not that fragile. I know sometimes people with powers don’t always use them as responsibly as you, but I want to meet the man who saved my Peter and tell him how grateful I am. Someone who does something like that can’t be a bad person.”

Peter wants to tell her she’s wrong, only he’s not entirely sure she is, at least not completely. Deadpool’s done a lot of bad things, or as Black Widow might say, he has a lot of red in his ledger, enough that saving one or two people here or there isn’t going to wipe it clean. Still, Peter remembers how when the woman fired the gun, Deadpool’s first thought had been for Peter’s safety. Even if Deadpool’s not a completely lost cause however, Peter doesn’t want to imagine him and Aunt May meeting. He’d give them five seconds before Deadpool managed to say or do something that’d completely scandalise Aunt May.

“I don’t know if I can arrange that, Aunt May,” he says carefully, “he’s a busy guy –“

“I’m sure you can if you put your mind to it,” Aunt May says firmly, cutting him off, and Peter moves the phone away from his mouth to let out a low groan. “I’d like to invite him, whoever he is, to dinner, to properly thank him.”

“You’re cooking as a thank-you? Sure you don’t want to order in?” Peter asks doubtfully, before he can stop himself.

“Peter! What are you trying to say about my cooking?”

“Nothing!” he says hastily. _Good one, Peter. Smooth, real smooth._

“I should hope not, young man,” she tuts. “Then it’s settled, you’ll invite him to dinner on Friday.”

Once again, Peter realises it’s not worth arguing. “Fine,” he says, defeated. “I’ll invite him round, I can’t promise he’ll accept –“ although Peter really doubted Deadpool would turn down this kind of chance to make him squirm – “but I’ll ask.”

“Promise?” Aunt May says.

“I promise,” Peter swears dutifully. **“** How’d you get to be so stubborn anyway, Aunt May?”

“It runs in the family,” she says affectionately and he laughs, before reassuring her one last time he’s okay, and hanging up.

Once she’s off the line, the smile fades as he thinks about what he’s unwillingly agreed to and he groans again. _At least Deadpool will be happy,_ he thinks, _after all, he did want to hang out, though I’m not sure this is quite what he had in mind… Maybe this won’t be a complete disaster. Maybe he and Aunt May will get along._ _Maybe this’ll be the gesture of good faith he needs to turn his life around, like a cheesy lifetime movie. Maybe being blindly optimistic will actually pay off for once._

“What’s the worst that can happen after all?” he asked aloud, then shuddered as his imagination obligingly generated him a dozen disastrous scenarios that ranged from the hopefully impossible (Deadpool somehow managing to overpower him and randomly killing Aunt May and burning down the house) to the all too probable (Deadpool insulting her cooking, unrepentantly hitting on Peter in front of her, or worse, hitting on her).

“Remind me again what I did to deserve this?” he mutters, letting his head fall into his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late. Christmas and New Years were busier than expected. Hopefully I'll have the next chapter up sooner! I think there's about two chapters more of this left to write.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadpool goes for dinner at Aunt May's. Obviously, he needs to dress for the occasion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit later than I normally try and get a chapter up. On the plus side, it's long? Quantity over quality, ammirite??

“You want me to meet the parents on the first date?” Deadpool asks, sounding like he can’t make his mind up whether to horrified or thrilled. “Someone’s keen.”

Peter hops down from the window ledge into Deadpool’s apartment. He’d hoped that a quick, fly-by visit would be sufficient to pass along the invitation, but clearly like anything involving Deadpool, this wasn’t going to be straightforward.

“It’s not a date, and she’s my aunt, I don’t _have_ parents,” Peter says shortly. Trying to have a serious conversation with Deadpool is like trying to herd _bees_ , bees that all want to fly in opposite directions to each other, using nothing but a butterfly net. It doesn’t work, and it’s generally painful. “And I would be happy if the two of you never ever, ever met, but she wants to thank you, so –“

“Superhero orphan, like _that’s_ never been done before,” Deadpool says snidely, then, “wait, wait, wait.” He shoves a hand over Peter’s mouth. Peter gives an indignant ‘mpmh!’ to signal his disapproval but the gesture is summarily ignored. “Hold up hot stuff, she wants to _what?!”_

“Express her gratitude through the medium of food and light conversation,” Peter says, prising Deadpool’s fingers off his face. “I know, you don’t have much experience with people wanting to thank you –“

 _“- I’ll_ say!”

“- but my Aunt knows you saved me.” Peter finishes. He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Normally, I try and keep her away from the homicidal maniacs in my life, but since she has a point, I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Let you meet her. Let her thank you. You’ll get to see me. Everyone’s happy.”

“Homicidal maniacs, plural? Spidey, I’m hurt, are you cheating on me?!” Deadpool gives an affronted gasp, putting a hand to his chest.

“Never mind,” Peter says quickly, frustrated. He’d tried, now he could tell Aunt May that Deadpool hadn’t accepted guilt-free. “Forget it. I knew this was a stupid idea.”

 “Woah, hold up, I never said no. Rule number three of the Deadpool code: never turn down free food. I’ll meet the old bag.”

“Oh, great,” Peter said, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm in his tone. “Thanks for being so gracious about it.”

“No sweat, Spidey! And not to worry - old folks love me, and I have plenty of experience putting up with their blabbering, I kept an old lady kept locked in my house for _years,_ ” Deadpool says.

“Clearly you are an expert,” Peter agrees. Deadpool beams, and Peter facepalms. “Definitely don’t mention that.”

“Don’t mention what?” Deadpool asks, cocking his head to one side, puzzled.

“The old lady you kept locked in the basement,” Peter clarifies.

“I didn’t keep her locked in the basement – that’s inhuman! A woman of her years - that would have been too cruel. No, she was allowed to roam the house. Free-range oldies are much happier.” Deadpool says seriously.

“Just don’t bring it up okay?” Peter repeats. “In fact, try not to bring anything up – don’t talk about your job, don’t make lewd jokes, just – don’t.”

“Woah, ouch,” Deadpool says, raising his hands defensively in front of him. “That stings, Spidey. Makes me feel like you’re ashamed of me, and you know how sensitive I am.”

Peter actually laughs at that. “Oh, that was a good one. Like you’d recognise shame if it wore a spandex suit and congo-danced up to you.”

Deadpool pouts, crossing his arms. “Believe it or not, I do have feelings. I know, all you actual super-heroes like to pretend like ol’ Deadpool’s just a walkin’, talkin’ punchbag – but I do feel. Just no one wants to think about that, do they? ‘cause then it ain’t quite as funny when your old pal Wolvie slices off my arms and stuffs them in my mouth to shut me up, right?”

“He’s never done that,” Peter said uncomfortably, but he can’t say he’s sure Logan hasn’t. Or that if he had, Peter hadn’t laughed.

“He hasn’t done that recently,” Deadpool corrects, “Not since I started being useful some of the time.”

“Look,” Peter says, moving to the window and rolling his mask back down over his face, “just – come, okay. I’ll come by and pick you up on Friday. Wear something nice.”

“It’s a date, lover-boy,” Deadpool sing-songs after him cheerily, leaning out of the window as Peter swings away, and Peter can almost feel the other man’s gaze burning into his butt-cheeks.

 

Friday arrives sooner than Peter would like, and it’s typical that the only day of the week he isn’t being run ragged fighting crime is the one day that he’d rather be webbing up miscreants.

“Are you sure you don’t need a hand?” he asks, trailing after Tony dejectedly.

“Nope, we’re fine, take the night off, go see your aunt,” the older man replies distractedly, waving a hand at Peter to usher him out of the way of one of the robots repairing the building. Most of the damage from the bomb and fighting that followed had already been cleared up, but there’s still some work to be done.

Peter steps to the side, and watches as the robot begins to clear rubble away. “I could help with the repair work,” he offers.

Tony snorts and crosses his arms over his chest, “Yeah, no thanks. You’ll just get in the way. Now, go visit Aunt May, before you make me think something’s wrong that I’m going to have to expend energy on to care about. It’s not like you to try and get out of seeing her.”

“It’s not her I’m trying to avoid,” Peter mutters darkly, but he gives up on finding a way out of the dinner and heads over to Deadpool’s, stopping along the way to pick up a cheap bunch of flowers for Aunt May.

He’s planning on taking the stairs and entering via the front door for once, rather than entering through the back window (there’s a double entendre there, but Peter’s stoically not thinking about it), but by the time he’s stood outside the front door of the tower block Wade lives in, he’s remembered that he doesn’t actually know what number apartment Wade’s in.

“Great,” he sighs. “Well, I could always play eeny, meeny, miney mo… the odds are only…” he counts the numbers silently, “forty to one.”

Before he can embarrass himself by buzzing strangers, the intercom hisses into staticky life, and a familiar voice crackles into hearing. “Hey, cutie! C’mon up, I’m just putting the final touches to my outfit. Door’s open!”

“Well, that sounds ominous,” Peter mutters, pulling the door open as it buzzes.

 He knows Wade is on the third floor, and from there, it’s easy enough to conjecture which apartment belongs to him; there’s a door left ajar, the sounds of Marvin Gaye spilling into the hallway along with an eye-watering amount of Old Spice.

With a certain amount of trepidation, Peter pushes the door fully open, and steps inside. “Hello?” he yells cautiously, “Deadpool? Wade? People he may or may not have kidnapped?"

"Spidey-baby? Is that you?" A voice calls from the far end of the hallway and Peter picks his way over, skirting the piles of abandoned clothes and delicately stepping over wayward shoes.

"It's me,"he answers, and something like his spidey-sense is tingling, warning him. "Are you ready? Or should I just tell Aunt May to cancel? It's okay, you know, if you're not feeling up to it, more food for me!"

"Cancel," Deadpool sputters, sticking his head round the corner of the bedroom door. He's still wearing his mask, and Peter's not sure if that bodes well or not for tonight."CANCEL?! After all the effort your dear old Aunt Whatsherface has been to? Are you mad?!"

"I’d say no, but I’m been spending quite a lot of time with you recently,” Peter says.

"Oh no, baby boy. We're not cancelling," Deadpool says, voice is low, murderous, and it makes Peter’s stomach flip. "Not after I got all dressed up." As he speaks, Deadpool steps out from behind the door with a grand flourish of his hands. "Ta da! how'd you like them apples?"

"Oh god," Peter yelps, voice squeakier than it’s been since he finally hit puberty in tenth grade, covering his face with one hand, cheeks burning a fiery red. "I'd say those look more like watermelons than apples to me."

 Coughing, Peter tries to figure out where to look. In Deadpool's defense, it _is_ a lovely dress, just very skin-tight and very revealing, and what it`s revealing is a lot of skin, all of it covered in red, painful-looking welts and open, oozing sores. The mask, as ever, is pulled firmly over Deadpool’s face, which makes it a little easier to look at him.

"Eh, you're right," Deadpool says distractedly, looking down at his chest. "I might have overdone it a little with the padding. What  d'ya think? I don't wanna look cheap."

"Erm," Peter stammers, looking for a diplomatic response. Cheap isn’t the word he’d choose when _gross_ and _gore-tacular_ spring to mind so easily.

"Give it to me straight," Deadpool growls, getting up close and personal, ample bosom pushed out like the prow of a ship, "does my butt look big in this?" He twists and bends like some sort of contortionist, sticking the aforementioned body-part out in Peter’s general direction.

"No?" Peter guesses, unsure of what the correct response is and helplessly trying not to stare. He’s more than a little certain that this is a sort of test, even if Deadpool himself isn’t aware of what he’s doing. Peter inviting Deadpool into his home has shifted the boundaries of their, for want of a better word, relationship, and Deadpool’s response is both an answer and a question. Peter can’t afford to react with any outward sign of disgust. “It doesn’t?”

"Damn," Deadpool hisses, eyes narrowing into a glare as he storms over to the bedroom and yanks the dress over his head.

Peter snaps his eyes firmly closed, willing his mind to erase the image he is sure will be forever burned onto his retinas. He really hadn`t needed to know that Deadpool was wearing matching lingerie under the dress. Lacy, frilly lingerie.

"Spidey?" Deadpool's voice calls, and there's a hint of anxiety there. "You alright, dweeb? Haven't broken your mind too much, have I?"

"It's fine," Peter says quickly, not wanting the man to think seeing his skin has freaked him out (although it has, and his appetite is definitely gone).

"Good," Deadpool calls back from the bedroom, and Peter doesn't miss the relief there, "because this next dress is gonna blow your mind!"

"Another dress?" Peter asks, opening his eyes without thinking.

"Yeah, got a problem with that?" Deadpool asks, in a manner that makes it clear Peter better not have a problem with that.

"Um," Peter is distracted momentarily by the dress Deadpool's holding up in front of himself. "Hm, that's actually quite nice," he decides, head to one side as he scrutinises it.

"Really?" Deadpool perks up, clutching it excitedly to his chest, and it’s so sincere that Peter can’t help but be slightly charmed. "So, this one?"

"Maybe not," Peter says gently, finding himself strangely reluctant to flat out say no and disappoint the man, who for a mercenary, is way too fond of ruffles. "I was thinking, perhaps a tux? You don't want to show up Aunt May after all."

Deadpool wilts, but nods, recovering quickly, bounding over to his closet like's he's made of rubber. "Yeah, you're right. Not everyone's got my legs after all."

“That certainly is true,” Peter agrees, smiling innocently as Deadpool shoots him an uncertain glare.

Half an hour later and Deadpool’s finally ready to leave. He actually doesn't look half bad in a tux, although it helps that the suit covers every inch of skin, since Deadpool has opted for white dinner gloves as well as his perpetual mask. They get some odd looks on the bus, but Peter`s surprised to see a few admiring glances cast in Deadpool`s direction.

"Going on a date, Spider-Man?" Someone from the back of the bus yells, and Peter freezes up for a panicky second before realizing the question is addressed to Deadpool, who winks and gives a thumbs up in response.

"He mistook you for me?" Peter asks incredulously, as they get off at the stop.

Deadpool shrugs casually, "Happens all the time. Don't tell me it's never happened to you?"

Peter thinks as he walks. "Nope. Can't say it's ever happened to me."

Deadpool pouts. "Typical. I need to threaten my marketing team, improve my brand recognition."

"Or you could try and come up with a more original costume, instead of ripping off mine," Peter suggests mildly, yelping and dodging the blow Deadpool levels at him with a frustrated growl. Peter smirks, pleased with himself.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Deadpool grumbles, but Peter catches the faint smile under the mask.

The light-hearted mood vanishes though as they walk up the front steps to Peter`s childhood home, and all the forgotten fears sink back into Peter. His palms are sweating, heart racing, and he`s scared in a way he never is when he`s out there fighting crime. This is like bringing the proverbial lion home to have dinner with the lamb and expecting the lion not to get the wrong idea about what to eat.

Deadpool seems nervous too. He`s gone silent and still next to Peter, and Peter can almost feel the tension humming through his body. "Nice house," is all the man says, but there's something angry and jealous in it that sets Peter`s nerves singing.

"It's okay if you've changed your mind," Peter says quietly.

Deadpool laughs nastily. "Yeah, you`d like that."

Peter shrugs non-commitally. "You just look uncomfortable, that’s all I`m saying."

Deadpool let's out a sharp breath, and opens his mouth to answer, but to say what Peter never discovers, because at that moment the front door swings open and a beaming Aunt May greets them.

"Hello! Oh, do come in the both of you, no standing around on my doorstep please."

They both awkwardly shuffle in, and the door`s hardly swung shut before Aunt May has flung her arms around Deadpool, squeezing him uncomfortably tight.

"Thank you so much," she whispers, voice tight with strong emotion.

Deadpool looks over her head to Peter, silently projecting _Oh fuck, what do I do?_  at him, back bristling like a cat caught in the rain.

Peter shrugs fatalistically, taking his coat off, and mouths _No idea_ back at him.

Deadpool glares at him, still uneasily constrained within Aunt May`s embrace, then awkwardly pats her on the back until she finally lets go and steps back. Peter lets out a breath he hadn`t realised he was still holding.

"I`m sorry about that dear," she sniffs, dabbing her eyes with the corner off her sleeve, "I shouldn't have latched onto you like that."

"Eh, don`t sweat it," Deadpool says, scratching his head through the mask in a rare gesture of shyness, "I`m used to it. Happens all the time, people flinging themselves at me. Your nephew was the same when we first met. Starstruck, couldn't keep his hands off me."

"That's not true," Peter sighs wearily, rolling his eyes, but Aunt May just chuckles and pats Deadpool playfully on the arm.

"Oh, you`re a tease too? You and Peter must get on so well,” she says, cheerfully turning to walk into the living-room and therefore missing the strangled, aborted noise Peter makes.

Deadpool turns to him slowly, a wide, shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “Yeah, me and Petey get on great.”

“Oh, I am pleased,” Aunt May coos, obliviously, from the next room and Peter could punch himself in the face for not thinking to warn her, though, he has to admit, at this point, hiding his name seems kinda redundant. Deadpool knows what he looks like and knows where Aunt May lives. There’s not much he couldn’t do with that information.

“Peter, huh? Shoulda known it would be a lame, nerdtastic name like that,” Deadpool says, still grinning.

“Like Wade’s any better,” Peter shoots back.

Deadpool snickers, but doesn’t respond verbally, just reaches out and snatches the slightly battered flowers out of Peter’s hand and moves into the living-room.

“I got ya some flowers, babe,” he says cheerfully, extending the bouquet to Aunt May and leaving Peter spluttering with indignation.

 _Stealing his flowers for Aunt May? Calling her babe?_ Surely Aunt May wouldn’t fall for his act.

Oh, but apparently she would.

“Oh, dear, these are lovely, Mr…”

“Call me Wade,” Deadpool says smoothly, bending over Aunt May’s hand and kissing it. She giggles at that like someone half her age, leaving Peter to stare with utter betrayal.

“Wade, they’re beautiful, you shouldn’t have.”

“Yeah, Wade,” Peter says through gritted teeth, “you really shouldn’t have.”

“Oh,” Aunt May clucks happily, “I’ll just go put these in some water while you boys set the table. Dinners nothing special, I’m afraid, just chicken and some vegetables.”

“Vegetables?” Deadpool makes a face at that. “Eurgh, why don’t you put them on Petey’s plate, he’s a growing boy.”

Aunt May laughs at that, and pats Deadpool on the shoulder, failing to notice the faint flinch the movement elicts. “Oh don’t worry, there’s enough vegetables for everyone.”

She leaves, and some of the tension Deadpool’s been carrying since he enters the house falls away. Peter lets out a long sigh, his own nerves already frazzled. It’s going better than he expected, he has to admit, but the evening has a long way to go and so much potential for unmitigated disaster that he’s sure, somewhat accelerated healing aside, that he’s going to develop a stomach ulcer. He walks over to the table, and starts laying out the plates and cutlery.  “You gonna help me, or just stand around like a tasteless room fixture?”

Deadpool jerks out of the odd stupor he seemed to have momentarily fallen into, hands automatically reaching for his guns, which, thankfully, for once he’s gone without. Peter flinches, wondering if this is the point where everything goes horribly wrong, but Deadpool shakes himself off, like he can physically divest himself of whatever dark thoughts or horrific hallucinations plague him, and says, “ _tasteless_? Are you kidding? You have no eye for fashion, Spidey, clearly. This suit is Armani.”

“ _Armani_?” Peter says in disbelief. It is a nice suit, and Deadpool fills it out well, which didn’t come as much as a surprise because, say what you like about Deadpool, the man has a killer figure _. More abs than is normal for even a super-hero_ , Peter thinks. _An_ ab _normal amount in fact. Still, Armani? Really?_

Apparently, yes.

“Uh, yeah. Rich, remember?” Deadpool says, jerking a thumb at himself. “At least, most of the time. Some of the time. When the cheques don’t bounce and the client doesn’t cut my fee for ‘failing to follow mission parameters’ or some crap. I call it thinking outside the box. Should charge extra for _that_.”

They lay the table, and Peter goes to the kitchen to help Aunt May bring the food in.

“What a nice boy,” she remarks, handing Peter the vegetable dish.

“Nice isn’t the word I’d use,” Peter grumbles, carefully holding the hot dish. “Seriously, Aunt May. I know you like to see the best in people, but Deadpool’s not a good guy.”

“He can’t be that bad,” she answers serenely, carving the chicken, “you’d never have agreed to let him in the house if that were the case.”

Peter splutters a bit, but he can’t really argue with that, even though he’s not entirely convinced he made the right call. Letting Deadpool into this part of his life is a gamble where the stake are high, and Peter’s not really sure what the pay-off might be yet. Still, for whatever reason, there’s a part of him that seems to hope Deadpool doesn’t screw this up.

“Poor boy… I feel sorry for him, Peter. It’s clear he isn’t used to being around others.”

“Yeah, because other people don’t want to be _around_ him,” Peter says, trying to keep his voice low.

“Well, that’s not very nice, is it?” Aunt May says severely, picking up the chicken. “He’s clearly not very well in the head, and then there’s that mask… well, there’s a reason he always wears it, isn’t there?”

“Yes, but -” Peter answers, beginning to feel a little guilty although he’s not entirely sure why.

“I don’t know Peter. I’m just a silly old woman, but I think it’s not very nice when people go out of their way to avoid people like him. It’s not helping him get better or change his ways, is it? It’s just making life more convenient for everyone else.” Aunt May gives him a look. “I’d have thought you’d have understood better than most people what it’s like to be an outsider, to be shunned by society.”

“For very different reasons,” Peter argues, but Aunt May’s moving into the living-room, so there’s no chance to explain how utterly different he is from Deadpool.

Deadpool’s sat quietly at the table, waiting. Peter’s a little surprised by this show of good behaviour, and frankly a little suspicious. His suspicion doesn’t go away once they’re seated and the meal underway; conversation is a little stilted, and there are one or two awkward silences, but overall it’s going amazingly well. Aunt May is as gentle and polite a woman as ever, gently coaxing conversation from Deadpool, who is, in turn, scarily quiet, responding only to direct questions and then with monosyllabic answers, and alarmingly effusive, talking at a thousand miles a minute without pausing for input, laughing hysterically at his own jokes, and making the usual off-colour remarks.

Peter’s sure that at least half Deadpool’s problem is that to eat he’s had to roll the mask up over his mouth, exposing a fraction of that scar-riddled skin. Aunt May, to her favour, apart from turning a little paler, hadn’t reacted at all to the sight. As always, Peter marvels at her empathy and understanding, and wishes he was half as good.

The night goes off without any violence, despite Deadpool’s attempt to start a food fight with the vegetables on his plate. Peter’s just glad he’s got super-fast reflexes, or Aunt May’d be scraping mashed potato off her walls right now. As it is, he’s not sure he’s managed to fish all the peas out from down the back of his shirt, and he wriggles uncomfortably now and again, sure he can feel one sliding down his spine. Actually, Peter’s the one who almost gets violent at one point.

“No,” he protests.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Peter,” Aunt May scolds. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, you were adorable as a child.”

“Oh, so I’m not now?” Peter asks defensively, before he can stop himself.

“Of course you are, sweetie. You’ll always be my little Petey-pie to me,” Aunt May says, reaching over to pinch his cheek, which is flaming red. “Now, let me see where I put those baby photos…” She gets up and moves over to the bureau, sorting through the drawers. “They’re in here somewhere, not to fear.”

Deadpool makes a small, choked sound and says something that sounds like “comedygold”.Peter kicks him under the table, and glares viciously. Deadpool just grins widely, and it’s a horrible sight, not least because he’s got broccoli caught between his teeth, but somehow it doesn’t turn Peter’s stomach like it had earlier. “Playing footsy now, are we?” Deadpool asks, waggling his eyebrows and capturing Peter’s foot between his own. Before Peter knows what’s going on, Deadpool’s running the toe of his boot along the inside of Peter’s leg, moving perilously close to Peter’s crotch as he slurps OJ in what he clearly thinks is a seductive manner.

“Stop,” Peter hisses, pushing at the offending boot, which is now resting in his lap, but he can’t push it off without a struggle, which would mean alerting Aunt May to what’s going on.

“Why?” Deadpool leers, leaning over the table. “Getting turned on?”

“No,” Peter says, sitting back in his seat and crossing his arms in annoyance. “I just don’t want to think about what you’ve stepped in.”

“Ah!” Aunt May straightens up, knees clicking. “Here they are.” She bustles back to the table, pile of photos in hand and pulls out a chair next to Deadpool. Peter groans, forgetting about the foot still resting in his crotch for a moment as he buries his head in his hands. Even his ears feel like they’re burning red.  “This is one of Peter on his seventh birthday. My, he was such a sweet, quiet, well-behaved boy.”

Deadpool examines the photo with apparent interest. “Huh. Nice specs there, nerd.”

“They were my father’s,” Peter says quietly.

“Oh,” Deadpool says, carelessly discarding the photo and sorting through the rest of the pile. “So the geek-factor’s genetic, then? You take after your old man?”

Peter feels a flash of anger at the way Deadpool’s acting, the callous way he’s sifting through Peter’s memories.

Aunt May gathers up the photos carefully, tapping them neatly so their edges align and gently smoothing out a slight crease in one. “Peter does take after his father, yes,” she says softly, reminiscently. “My husband’s brother was a scientist, a very smart man. Peter is very much like him.” She smiles at Peter, and he returns a smile, feeling somewhat mollified. “How about you, Wade? Are you like your father?”

There’s a thump as Deadpool’s foot slips of Peter’s lap and hits the floor. Deadpool’s shoulders are hunched, and his mouth clamped closed into a thin, harsh line, the scars tugging it down into an uneven grimace. It’s a strong reaction to such a seemingly innocuous question, yet Peter finds he isn’t surprised. The damage in Wade runs deep enough that it had to have been inflicted at least partially while he was young. “No,” he says shortly. There’s an uncomfortable silence. Aunt May looks dismayed, and uncertain of how to change the subject.

Before he knows what he’s going to say, Peter’s talking. “So your good looks? Those aren’t genetic? What about your sparkling personality? Not hereditary?”

Deadpool’s mouth drops open, and Aunt May looks like she’s considering kicking him in the leg. Peter winces internally, knowing this could end badly _. I just couldn’t think of anything else to say! Besides, he makes fun of me all the time!_

Luckily, today seems to be one of the days when Deadpool’s sense of humour isn’t defective, and he finally reacts by snorting hysterically with laughter. “Yeah right! Nah, I’m a one-of-a-kind, special edition, like those stamps with mistakes.”

“What?” Peter asks, trying to follow.

“Y’know, it increases the value of the stamp if there’s an imperfection,” Deadpool explains, and Peter finds himself wondering how the hell Wade knows this.

“What a nice analogy,” Aunt May says, relived.

“Yeah,” Peter says, eyebrows raised, “I would never have taken you for a philatelist."

“How dare you insult me like I assume you’re insulting me!”

“It’s the correct name for a stamp-collector,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. “Nerd.”

“Take that back,” Deadpool hisses, glaring.

“Make me,” Peter says, getting a perverse pleasure out of teasing the merc.

Deadpool opens his mouth, but before he can get another word out, Peter takes his chance and launches his projectile.

_“GLURK!”_

Coughing, Deadpool manages to hack up the broccoli, which flops out of his mouth to land wetly on the table. Glaring at Peter, Deadpool massages his throat. “Damn it, this is why I hate vegetables!”

“Oh no,” Aunt May says, patting him on the back and pouring him a glass of water. “I think you’ll find it was actually Peter to blame, rather than the broccoli though, dear.”

“True,” says Deadpool thoughtfully, eyes fixed on Peter, and it’s only his reflexes that save him from being stabbed as Deadpool lunges across the table, butter knife in hand.

“Oh!” Peter hears Aunt May shriek, as he wrestles the knife off Deadpool, knocking over the gravy pitcher as they go.

Once Deadpool’s been disarmed, it seems everyone has silently agreed the dinner is over. Deadpool actually seems to feel a little bad, because while he doesn’t say sorry, he does help take the dishes out. Peter isn’t relaxed until they’re both stood on the doorstep, saying goodbye to Aunt May.

She gives Peter a quick hug and kiss on the cheek, before extracting a promise from him to come round again sometime in the week, then turns to Deadpool and gives him a quick hug and places a quick peck on the ragged skin of his cheek. Deadpool flinches very visibly at that, taking a step back and nearly falling off the steps. It’s almost comical, but it’s also really not. Aunt May smiles at him, and there’s a little sadness in it, then presses one of his hands between hers and urges him to come visit.

“Really?” Deadpool asks dubiously, and Peter can’t help but echo the question. “You’re sure? Normally one visit is more me than people can handle.”

“I mean it,” Aunt May affirms. “You’re welcome to drop by now and again.” She pats him on the shoulder again, and it doesn’t escape Peter how Deadpool leans into the touch this time, and he remembers the desperate, starved way Wade had clung to him the other day, thinks about the nervous, almost-frightened way Deadpool had acted at dinner, more erratic than usual, and Peter realises yet again that Deadpool’s not used to this. To meeting people’s aunts, to coming over for dinner, to being _welcomed._ A part of him feels sad for Deadpool, but another part of him is scared at the prospect of the mercenary alone with Aunt May, without his guidance and watchful eye.

“Well, alright, if you’re sure?” Deadpool says, sounding perplexed as if he honestly can’t comprehend someone offering a repeat invitation.

“That’s settled then,” Aunt May says cheerfully. “’bye boys!”

The door swings shut, leaving them both still stood on the steps. Deadpool turns to Peter with a somewhat baffled expression. “So, crazy and too nice for your own good runs in the family too, huh?”

“Yep,” Peter agrees.

“Let me guess, this is the part where you warn me not to hurt her or you’ll make me pay, right?” Deadpool says, scuffing one shoe on the concrete of the step as he looks at Peter warily. “Yeah, yeah, I get it –“

Peter takes great satisfaction in shoving him back against the door and pinning his arms above his head. “Good, I’m glad you get it,” he says conversationally, leaning in a little menacingly. “Because that woman is my only family, Deadpool, so nothing is going to happen to her.”

“Gotcha,” Deadpool says, a little breathlessly. “I promise, swear on my grave – it’s a nice grave as well, good location, white marble –“

“I mean it, Wade,” Peter says, leaning in closer, speaking slower for extra emphasis. “That includes emotional as well as physical harm. Be _polite_ , I don’t care if it’s hard.”

Deadpool lets out a little whine, and gasps, pressing himself further back against the door, and Peter wonders what the hell he’s done to elicit his kind of response. He isn’t used to threatening folk, and he’s not sure he’s doing it right. “I promise, honest. I like the old broad. Now, you wanna let go?” Deadpool’s voice is kinda squeaky by the end.

Peter frowns, confused. “Really? No taunts, no making me beg? You’re just agreeing?”

“Yep!” Deadpool agrees, ferociously cheerfully.

“Why?” Peter asks suspiciously.

“Because!” Deadpool half-shouts, frustration pouring off him. “Because I don’t actually kill everybody I meet, despite what you may think, ‘specially people willing to cook for me and let me sit in their nice clean house and show me baby pictures of their nephew!”

“Oh,” Peter says, steam taken out of his sails somewhat.

“Now, you gonna let go of me?” Deadpool sounds a little desperate. “Or not let go, but then you gotta touch me a whole lot more, whatever works for you. C’mon, kid, you’re killing me here.”

“Huh? You’re making less sense than usual, which for you, is a real achievement.” Peter says, not letting go.

“You’ve got me in a hard spot, which is gonna to escalate to a sticky situation if you don’t back off!” Deadpool hisses, shifting in his grip.

Peter frowns, trying to work out what Deadpool is saying, then realises. “Oh. OH!” He lets go and steps back hastily, flushing again.

Deadpool grumbles a little, and adjusts his crotch.

“You got a hard-on?” Peter blurts out, unable to help himself. “Really? Just from,” he waves a hand, “that?”

“What d’ya expect, man-handling me like that?” Deadpool says, seemingly unabashed.

“You, um, like being man-handled?” Peter asks, wondering why as he does.

“Uh, _yeah_.”

“So, before… when we fought… did you ever…?” Peter trails off.

“… get a raging boner for your sweet ass? Sure,” Deadpool says. “Have you _looked_ in the mirror?”

“Yeah,” says Peter, still a little perplexed.

“Ever jerked off while watching yourself in the mirror?”

“No – wait, what’s that got to do with anything?” Peter asks, flushing furiously.

“Nothing,” Deadpool says nonchalantly. “Just wanted to know for personal reference. Need some new material for the old spank-bank, you know.”

“Gross,” Peter mutters.

“It’s a compliment,” Deadpool insists. “You should be _flattered_.”

In an odd way, Peter actually is. What that says about him, he doesn’t know. That he has ridiculously low standards maybe?

“Go home, Wade,” is all he ends up saying in the end, and if he feels a little disappointed when Deadpool listens for once, well, no one has to know that.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some mild non-consenual groping in this chapter, and Deadpool creeping on Spidey a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this has taken me so long to update, I've been busy and my laptop broke and then I just kinda lost inspiration for a while. Sorry if this chapter is not very good, I just felt like I had to post it or I was going to get stuck. I'll try and have the next chapter up faster!

Aunt May was a real babe. She was like Blind Al, except not blind. And she didn’t swear, or smoke or approve of kicking puppies.

**So really, she’s nothing like Blind Al.**

_Yeah, but she’s old! And wrinkly. They’re practically twins. If you shook the cigarette ash off Al and stood them next to each other in a police line-up, you’d never be able to tell them apart!_

May also wasn’t quite as feisty as Al. Oh, she had plenty of guts, and a spine of steel that stopped him from getting his own way, but she was also fragile physically in a way that meant some of his best jokes (which always involved explosions) weren't possible.

Still. Wade couldn't help liking her. And he thought the feeling was mutual for once. She certainly never objected when he came round, and always had plenty of food at hand. In all honesty, he'd only started hanging around in the hope that he'd run into her cute nephew, but in the weeks that passed, he started going just to see her. It was hard to tell with her constant cheerfulness, but he sorta thought she was maybe almost as lonely as him. There were pictures of Peter (and thank you May, for that gem of information) all over the house, as well as pictures of an older, grey-haired and kind faced man. May would mention him now and again, quietly, in passing, and whenever she did it was obvious how much he'd meant to her, and Peter. (Wade can't stop the stab of jealousy that hits him in the guts every time, because yeah, losing someone you love sucks, but at least Peter had had someone like that.)

So Christmas was coming up, and Wade wants to get her a gift. The trouble of course, was what to buy her. Wade had started the brainstorming process by thinking about the kind of things _he'd_ like for Christmas, but somehow he thinks she probably wouldn't appreciate the latest advance in weaponry, no matter how sharp, shiny or good at eviscerating, or a year's subscription to PornBub (the world's only website to host porn featuring Wolverine-lookalikes exclusively).

After a couple of hours of thought and several scribbled out lists of potential gifts, he has to give in and face it – he needs help. Unfortunately, there aren't that many people in his contact list he can call up and ask .

**There aren't that many people in our contact list, period.**

“Shut up! That's not _helpful._ ”

 **No need to shout** , the first box says. It somehow manages to sound injured.

_No wonder you don't have friends if you speak to them the way you speak to us._

“Yadda yadda, blah blah blah. Don't you voices have something better to do? Some other poor mook to bother?”

**Not really...**

_No one else listens._

“Whatever,” Wade grunts, unsympathetic. “Now, shut up. I'm trying to phone someone.” He presses the call button. After a couple of rings, someone picks up.

“Muh-mister Wilson, is that you?”

“Of course it's me, Bob, who else would be phoning you?”

“Ruh-right. It's juh-just it's kinda early, Mister Wilson, and I was actually in bed -”

“I didn't call you up to play catch up, Bob, I called you because I need help!”

“Ohgodpleaseno.”

“What did you say?! Don't mumble, Bob. You know I hate mumblers!”

“Suh-sorry. It's just, every time I help you Mister Wilson, I end up getting shot at, or stabbed, or yelled at. Often by you.”

“Jeez, Bob, you need to learn to not let those kinda things get to ya. When are you gonna learn to stand up for yourself, huh?”

“Uh, o-okay. I don't want to help -”

“Shut up, Bob, I'm talking. Anyway, like I said, I need your help. Oh, stop crying! Relax, I don't need you to be bait or for target practise. I just need to know what kinda gift to get for this old bird.”

“Ruh-really?” The sound of sobbing slowly stops, and when Bob next speaks, he sounds almost hopeful. “Uh, okay. I guh-guess I could try to help, buh-but I'm not exactly an expert on women...”

“What are you talking about? You're married, ain't ya? You must have done something right?”

“I don't know about that,” Bob mumbles, then, louder, as if he's just fearfully remembered what Wade had said about mumbling, or had remembered his wife was in the background, “I mean, I guess...”

“All right,” Wade says soothingly, the way he'd talk to a traumatised goose he needs to lay a golden egg. “Now, think Bob. Gifts.”

“Gifts?” Bob repeats helplessly, like he's forgotten what the word means. It isn't completely improbable. Bob was a panicker.

Wade suppresses the urge to smash the phone. “Yes,” he hisses. “Gifts. Presents. What should I buy her?”

“Oh, uh. Well, I guess it depends on what kind of woman she is, buh-but you could always buy chocolates and flowers right?”

“Or I could just buy her a box of bran flakes, because that's about as exciting a gift,” Wade growls. He pauses, thoughtfully. “Actually, bran flakes _are_ good for digestion, and a nice, solid bowel movement is probably the greatest gift anyone can receive. I'll put that on the list. Good work, Bob.”

“Uh, glad I could huh-help?” Bob says, sounding confused.

Wade hangs up; the last thing Bob needs is the sloppy sentimentalism of a goodbye. He scratches his head thoughtfully through the mask, then flips to a clean page of paper and writes 'bran flakes' down carefully. It was a start. Still, he couldn't help feeling that as gift ideas went, it was a bit lacking. Whichever way you looked at it, bran flakes were kinda boring. Maybe if he bought some Lucky Charms and separated out all the little marshmallow bits and added them to the bran flakes...? He makes a note of that idea, then scrolls to the next name in his mobile's contact list.

Cable.

“Huh. He's pretty old, maybe he'd be able to give the inside scoop on the ideal geriatric gift,” Wade muses, leaning back in his swivel chair and spinning. “Then, again, he hasn't called in a while. He's probably out of the country, or out of the century or something, and I hear the cell coverage in post-apocalpytic futures is really crappy.”

 _I'm sure that's the only reason he hasn't called_ , one of the boxes says, faux-comfortingly.

“Aw, shaddup,” Wade growls, as the chair comes to a stop. “I'm over him anyway. Big half-metal jerk.”

 **That's it** , the other box chimes in consoling, **let it go.**

_Last time we let you watch Disney movies, dude._

“Who needs him?” Wade mumbles. “G.I. Jesus with his impeccable pecs... I'm better off without him.”

_Keep telling yourself that._

Wade continues scrolling through his phone-book. Most of the numbers are for take-out places, and probably wouldn't be very helpful. He gives up, disgustedly chucking the phone across the room. The person he really wants to talk to isn't in his phone-book.

“So I'll just have to find some other way to get hold of him,” Wade decides.

 

 

“Help me, Spider-Man!”

At the sound of the cry, Peter alters his trajectory mid-swing and lands on the roof of the building overlooking the alleyway the scream had come from. It's too dark to really see anything or anyone, only the faint outline of a figure in a white dress visible. Wasting no time, he leaps down, landing in a defensive crouch beside the person who'd called for help, and looks around the shadows, trying to spot the assailants.

The alleyway is empty of threats, at least as far as he can see, and he rounds on the person who'd called him down to ask them what the problem is. He blinks in confusion as he finally gets a look at “...Deadpool?” he says finally. “...why are you wearing a dress?” _Again_ , he thinks silently, then shakes off his confusion, and tries to focus. “You called for help, what's wrong? Was someone attacking you?” His mind catches up with his mouth, and he frowns, bewildered. “Was someone attacking you and you needed _assistance_?”

“Nah, I just needed to get your attention,” the merc says, with an unrepentant smirk, grabbing hold of Peter's arm. “This'd be so much easier if you'd just give me your number. You have any idea how long I've been waiting in this alleyway, or how many other superheroes have stopped by to see what's wrong? Can't go five minutes without some kid in a costume tryin' to save the day in this town, it's like an infestation...”

Peter frowns as the merc rambles on, confusion turning to anger as he realises what the man is saying. “You mean there's no emergency?” He interrupts, and Deadpool pauses to give him a slight nod and a look that says, _duh_. “Seriously, Deadpool! That is so uncool!” Peter yells, “I thought someone was in trouble – and someone might be in trouble right now, and I'm here in an alley talking to you.” He shakes Deadpool's hand off, and goes to leave.

“Wait,” Deadpool grabs his arm again, and Peter turns, determined to give the merc an angry piece of his mind, but Deadpool says hurriedly before he can start yelling again. “Look, I'm sorry, yeah? I, I just wanted to talk to you...”

Peter glares, because really, that's not going to cut it.

Deadpool seems to realise this, because he continues in a small voice, “... look, I know it was a stupid idea, even for me. I just, I didn't know how to get hold of you.” He pauses, shoulders hunched, and it's stupid, he shouldn't be able to look small and vulnerable, he's over six foot of pure, scarred muscle, but somehow he manages it.

Peter sighs. He's still a little angry, because the stupid stunt Deadpool pulled is a bit like prank-calling the emergency services, but Deadpool's looking shame-faced, or at least, Peter thinks he is - with the mask it's hard to tell, and the earnest way the merc's tilting his head is making the blond wig he's wearing slip. Peter reaches out before he can stop himself and straightens it. “Yeah, well, don't do it again, okay?” he says, as sternly as he can manage, and Deadpool nods in agreement so vigorously his wig slips a little again. “Good,” Peter says, and then, because he can't help himself and he's been wanting to ask since he got here, “And what is _up_ with the outfit?”

Deadpool beams in relief, mask stretching wide as he gives a distressingly practised pirouette. “Damsel in distress, _duh_. Don't you like it?”

“It's, uh, fetching,” Peter says. The dress is white and flouncy and you almost can't see where he's bleached the bloodstains. He blinks, once or twice, oddly fascinated at all skin Wade's showing. It's a strangely provocative outfit, one that screams 'look at me!', unapologetically displaying the scarred skin that Deadpool's notoriously shy about. Deadpool shifts a little under Peter's scrutiny as the pause stretches out awkwardly, and begins talking again, babbling and gesticulating wildly. Peter tunes him out. The more time he spends with Wade, the more he realises how much of him is an act, or no, not an act – an exaggeration. In as much as he likes to grab attention, he's remarkable good at deflecting it, at stopping people from looking too closely. Peter can recognise that; after all, it's what he does too.

“Wade,” Peter says, reaching out and touching his shoulder where the skin is bare. The man stills instantly, the white eye-holes of the mask widening in silent shock at the touch.

“Uh,” the merc says inelegantly, and he takes a step back, out of reach, nearly stumbling over his feet in an uncharacteristically ungraceful movement. He looks slightly panicked, trapped in the alleyway, as if he really was in trouble.

Peter lets his hand drop back to his side, fingers curling loosely as he takes a second to memorize the way Wade's scars had felt. _Scientific curiosity_ , he tells himself. He licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “What did you need to talk to me about?”

“I wanted to know what brand of bran flakes your Aunt May likes,” Deadpool says, recovering his poise.

Peter raises an eyebrow in confusion. He realises that grammatically that sentence made sense, but that was the only way. Still, he decides to roll with it. “Any particular reason or are you conducting a market survey?”

“I'm going to buy her some for Christmas,” Deadpool elucidates helpfully. It's less helpful than he perhaps thinks. Peter decides to just bite and ask.

“Why are you buying my aunt bran flakes for Christmas?”

“As a gift,” Deadpool says, with a winning smile and accompanying jazz hands.

Peter isn't sure how to respond.

Deadpool slumps. “You're right. It's a lousy idea.” He kicks morosely at a loose bit of cement, and Peter notices he's wearing white heels.

“You were going to buy her bran flakes as a gift?” Peter can't decide if it's sweet or creepy that Deadpool was going to buy May a Christmas gift. He thinks it's probably both.

Deadpool gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Of course it did,” Peter says, vaguely comfortingly. Deadpool seems to be taking Peter's lack of enthusiasm a little hard.

“I'm going to kill Bob,” Deadpool mutters.

“No killing,” Peter says automatically. It worrying how much more often he's had to say that since working alongside Logan.

“What have you bought her?” Deadpool asks.

“Uh, nothing yet,” Peter says sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. “I've been kinda busy, and I don't get paid until next week. Even then, it's not like I'm going to be able to afford anything too fancy,” he says, faintly bitter because he'sfriends with Tony Stark and he's _still_ broke. Although that's not fair, Tony would happily give him bucket-loads of money. It's him that has a problem accepting that kind of generosity.

“Being an Avenger doesn't pay big bucks?” Deadpool says, sounding horrified.

“Neither does crime,” Peter says solemnly.

Deadpool's mask wrinkles, and Peter can tell he's probably frowning. “Except, it kinda does,” the man points out. “Hey, I got an idea.”

Peter groans.

“Hush, pookie,” Deadpool says, pressing a finger to Peter's lips. “Listen. How's about we go halves on a gift, huh? I got plenty of cash, sweetheart, and you know the kind of crap your aunt likes.” He removes his finger to clap his hands gleefully and bounce, “Ooo, we could go Christmas shopping together as well.”

“That's -” Peter cuts himself off before he says something like, _an awful idea_ , or, _completely out of the question_ , and pauses to try and phrase his rejection a little more diplomatically, then thinks _why_? Why reject this offer? Because it means voluntarily spending time with Deadpool, says the sane part of his brain. Peter is alarmed to find the thought doesn't bother him that much. And lets face it, he thinks, it's better than letting Wade buy something for May without supervision. “That's a very generous offer,” he ends up saying cautiously.

“So, that's a yes?” Deadpool says hopefully, and Peter really can't say no without feeling like the seasonally appropriate grinch. He nods.

“Sweet!” Deadpool crows, fist-pumping the air. “Let's go.”

“Where?” Peter asks, following Deadpool who is enthusiastically already halfway down the alleyway.

“To the shops?” Deadpool says, sounding puzzled.

“Now?” Peter says. “It's midnight, Wade, the only places open are sex shops and off-licenses.”

Deadpool continues to look at him, head cocked to one side, blonde hair falling onto his bare shoulders. Peter sees a sudden flash of Gwen, and he feels a rush of surprise that his life has turned out like this, that he's here in a alley that smells a lot like piss, making plans to go Christmas shopping with someone like Wade.

“We're not buying Aunt May a gift from either of those places,” Peter clarifies.

Deadpool shrugs, “Your call.” He smirks suddenly, sidling over to Peter and slipping an arm round his waist. “There's a classy little boutique round the corner, we could always get _you_ a Christmas present.”

Peter swats half-heartedly at the hand that's sliding lower, making a break towards his ass. “Please, I've already got enough skin tight latex in my wardrobe.”

Deadpool snickers at that good-humouredly, then unexpectedly gives Peter a light slap on the butt before stepping away. Peter can't stop the faint yelp that escapes from his mouth, cheeks burning under his mask. Deadpool's grin only stretches wider at Peter's reaction.

Peter opens his mouth, ready to give Deadpool a lecture on boundaries, but is interrupted by the blare of a siren starting somewhere not too distant. His head turns automatically to track the sound, and he picks out the wail of a second siren, an ambulance. Someone is hurt. Someone is in trouble. “That sounds like my cue to exit hastily.”

“Take care, sweetness,” Deadpool says, blowing him a kiss as Peter starts to climb up the wall, heading to the rooftop for height. “Don't forget about our date!”

Peter's too busy to respond, and it's not until he's on the rooftop that he realises they haven't arranged a time or place to meet. He feels a pang of guilt, but he's got somewhere to be and someone to save, so he swings off into the night without looking back.

 

 

As it turns out, Peter really didn't need to worry about not being able to get hold of Deadpool to discuss Christmas shopping plans.

“How did you get in?” he asks, pacing up and down the kitchen, and tugging at his hair in pure frustration. It's way too early to be dealing with this, and he hasn't even had time to make coffee yet, let alone have breakfast.

Deadpool makes a muffled noise and wiggles. Or, tries to wiggle. Peter didn't leave him much wiggle room when he sprayed him against the wall with his webshooters, but that's what he deserved for sneaking into Peter's kitchen, _for breaking into Peter's apartment._

Peter makes a noise that's almost a growl. He's really been spending too much time around Wolverine. Clearly, it's not just fleas he has to worry about catching. “How the heck did you even find this place?” he asks, spinning on his heel to stare at Deadpool in bewilderment. “Did you follow me? How would I not have noticed that? You're not exactly known for being stealthy! And I have super powers! Enhanced senses!!”

Peter takes a deep breath, and tries to calm down. Excessive punctuation is one of the early signs of madness, and he refuses to let Deadpool succeed where life and super villains had failed. Marching up to Deadpool, he rips the webbing coating the bottom half of the merc's mask off and waits, arms crossed. “Feel free to explain,” he says, one eyebrow raised, uncomfortably aware he's channelling Aunt May during his teenage years.

Deadpool takes a second to suck in fresh air, or as fresh as air can get when its being filtered through that noxious mask, then offers weakly, “Thought I'd make you breakfast...?”

Count to ten, Peter says silently, think of still ponds, raindrops on windows. Focus on those breathing exercises Banner swears by. He says, quite calmly he thinks, “That doesn't explain how you knew where I lived.” He frowns, a horrible suspicion forming. “Did Aunt May tell you?”

“What?” Deadpool sounds surprised. “Nope, the old gal likes me, but not that much. I found you using the tracking device I planted on you.” He doesn't even have the decency to be ashamed.

“Tracking device?” Peter asks, confused. “When did you get close enough to plant a tracking device on me?”

Deadpool looks noticeably shifty. It's impressive, considering wearing a mask makes everyone look kind of shifty. Peter groans.

“You planted a tracking device on my _butt_?”

Deadpool nods.

“Great. So you not only invaded my personal space by groping me, but also my privacy.” Peter glares at Deadpool.

“'Least this way there's no more secrets between us,” Deadpool says brightly. “The foundation for any good relationship.”

Peter sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. “I'm pretty sure trust is the foundation of any good relationship,” he points out. “That, and not having a history of breaking and entering.” He looks gloomily at Deadpool, webbed to his wall, and wonders what to do with him and more importantly what his webbing is going to do to the paint. It's probably not worth worrying about; he's pretty sure he lost his safety deposit the first time he got bloodstains on the carpet.

“You gonna let me down?” Deadpool asks, cocking his head curiously. “Or do you get off on this kinda thing? Heh, no judgement either way.”

“I'm going to leave you up,” Peter says, moving towards the toaster. “The webs will dissolve in about an hour, which gives me time to have breakfast and a shower without worrying about you destroying my flat.”

“Aw, c'mon Spidey,” Deadpool whines, wiggling futilely. “This is _boring.”_

“Think of it as a time-out,” Peter says, sliding the last slice of bread into the toaster. He thinks he should probably be angrier at Deadpool; after all, the guy broke into his apartment, but it seems he had been serious about making Peter breakfast; there's a mixing bowl full of half-mixed goop, and the thought of pancakes is almost enough to make Peter wish he'd woken up ten minutes later.

True to his word, Peter leaves Deadpool hanging (literally) while he gets ready to go. As he's pulling on his trainers, he hears a muffled thump from the kitchen, and smirks to himself. A minute later, Deadpool limps into the living-room, massaging his wrists.

“Y'know, normally being tied-up by an attractive man would be the highlight of my week, but I'm thinkin' next time we should agree on a safety word before we start anything,” Deadpool says sulkily.

“Maybe next time you could try knocking instead of breaking in,” Peter says snidely, grabbing a backpack. He regrets the words once they've left his mouth, because they could be taken as encouragement for Deadpool to come visit, and the last thing he wants is for this to be a regular thing. Well, unless next time Deadpool really _does_ make pancakes... Peter probably shouldn't mention the things he'd do for decent home-cooking; Deadpool already has enough dirt on him, without needing to know his weakness for food that doesn't come in a packet.

“This the part where you kick me out and tell me not to bother you any more?” Deadpool asks gloomily.

“No?” Peter says, confused. “I was going to go Christmas shopping with you. That's why you came over, right? To pick a gift for Aunt May together?”

“Uh, well yeah,” Deadpool says, still sounding confused.

“Well, let's go then,” Peter says, frowning as he waits for Deadpool to move.

“You're actually willing to be seen in public with me? You ain't worried I'm gonna ruin your rep?” Deadpool asks. He hasn't made any move towards the door yet, still intently staring at Peter.

Peter laughs hollowly. “What reputation? When I'm not out being Spider-Man, I'm a nobody.”

“Yeah, but you're a cute nobody,” Deadpool says in protest, but he relaxes slightly. “You sure? I can change.”

 _No, you can't_ , Peter thinks, but that's not what Deadpool means. “You're fine like this.”

 

 

In the end they compromise; Deadpool borrows a hoodie and some sweatpants to wear over his suit. The mask, as always, stays on.

“You're actually kinda scrawny, aren't you?” Deadpool says, critically, glancing at his reflection in one of the mirrors of the store they're in. The hoody's stretched tight across his shoulders, and the sweatpants are a couple of inches too short.

“I'm acrobatically built,” Peter insists, picking up another angora sweater contemplatively.

“I'm acrobatic too,” Deadpool objects. “But I'm not tiny. Do you even lift, bro?”

“Shut up,” Peter groans, then raises an eyebrow, still considering the sweater. “What about this?”

Deadpool tilts his head, then says, critically, “Hmm... it's nice, but I don't think the colour works for you.”

“I meant for Aunt May,” Peter says, rolling his eyes.

“Oh!” Deadpool shrugs. “Yeah, get it for her.”

“I'm not sure,” Peter murmurs, rubbing his fingers over the soft wool. He bites his lip. Christmas is always stressful. Being poor and having to buy presents sucks. It even makes receiving gifts suck, which should be impossible, but either he feels guilty accepting gifts from people he knows have money struggles of their own, or he feels guilty accepting gifts from people with money, because he knows his gift to them won't be as good. He wants to get Aunt May the perfect present for once. But he's only got about forty bucks he can spend on her, and he's not sure how much Deadpool is going to chip in.

He flips the price tag. He reads it twice, just to be sure it's not a mistake. He very carefully folds the sweater and places it back on the shelf. “Maybe we should try a different store.” _Something that sells things in my price-range... like a dollar store._

“You not going to get the sweater?” Deadpool sounds slightly confused.

“Uh, no,” Peter says, flushing slightly. “I'm not sure it's Aunt May's style.”

“Yeah?” Deadpool picks the sweater up carelessly, and Peter makes a strangled noise, because Wade's gloves look _grimy_. Deadpool shrugs. “Eh, I'll buy it anyway. If she doesn't like it, I'll have it.” He looks at Peter expectantly, “So, where to now?”

“Now?” Peter asks, stupidly.

“Yeah, where now? You wanna buy her some more clothes? Designer slippers? Maybe a string of pearls? Mobility scooter? What else do old ladies like?” Deadpool scratches his head, brow crinkling as he thinks. “The Golden Girl's boxset! It's perfect, why didn't I think of it before?”

“Uh,” Peter says, slightly alarmed. “I think the sweater will be enough.”

“Nah, c'mon Petey, this is May we're talking about,” Deadpool argues persistently. “Don't you want to get her lots of stuff?”

Peter gnaws on his lip, balling his fists in his pockets. He can't meet Deadpool's eyes – or the eye-holes of the mask, whatever. “Of course. It's just...”

“What?” Deadpool asks gently.

“I – I can't afford all that stuff, Wade!” Peter explodes, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. “I don't have a lot of money, okay -”

“But I do,” Deadpool points out.

“Yes, but it's yours,” Peter tries to explain. “I can't accept you buying all these gifts.”

“I'm not buying them for you, you dork,” Deadpool says. “I'm buying them for May. “

“Yes, but,” Peter begins, helplessly trying to argue despite the fact that for once Deadpool seems to have logic on his side.

“No buts,” Deadpool says firmly. Then snickers, predictably. “ _Butts.”_

“Are you sure?” Peter tries, once more. “I can pay you back.” _Somehow,_ he thinks silently, maybe if he doesn't eat during January.

“It's fine,” Deadpool says, waving a hand dismissively. “It's only money, Petey! God, what else am I going to do with it? Bathe in it? That's ineffective.” Peter opens his mouth to argue, or maybe just to tell Deadpool to go fuck himself and take his money with him, but then Deadpool says, low and pleading, “Just let me do this, okay? Let me have this one thing, do something good and nice like a real hero, okay?”

And Peter shuts his mouth. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Awesome,” Deadpool grins. “Is it just me or did that last exchange feel like it was lifted from some adolescent romance novel?”

Peter rolls his eyes, and is about to reply when the shop assistant whose been hovering in the vicinity for the last ten minutes, watching their every move with narrowed eyes, takes his opportunity to swoop down on them both.

“Can I help?” he asks, with the kind of frosty politeness that tells Peter what he means is _what are you doing in my shop, you grubby little men?_

“Uh, no thanks, we're good,” Peter replies awkwardly, very aware of frayed hems of his jeans and ketchup stain on his tshirt. “Just, you know, browsing.” He bobs his head, trying to look nonchalant and not like a shoplifter.

The shop assistant doesn't look convinced by Peter's portrayal of a completely normal and law-abiding citizen. “Really?” he says, with a faint sneer. “Are you sure this store stocks the kind of apparel you're after?” His eyes flick to Deadpool briefly, taking in the mask and the ill-fitting clothes, before glancing away. His lips thin.

“What are you lookin' at, pal?” Deadpool says, menacingly, stepping toward the shop assistant.

“I'm not sure,” the shop assistant murmurs in an undertone.

Peter has to grab Deadpool's arm to stop him as he jerks towards the man.

“We're actually shopping for my Aunt,” Peter tries to explain. “We have money, we're not criminals – well, he is, but -” he lapses into a gloomy silence. _For his next trick, Peter Parker will fit not one but two feet in his mouth!_

“I think maybe you should leave,” the shop assistant says. “Before I have to call security.”

“Really?” Peter begins, annoyance winning over politeness. “We're going to pay.”

The shop assistant reaches for his walkie-talkie.

“Relax, babe,” Deadpool says, pulling out his wallet and opening it up. He pulls out two fifty dollar notes and waves them in the shop assistant's face. “See?”

“Fine,” the shop assistant concedes, plastering a smile on. “Sorry about that, gentlemen.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Deadpool sneers, waving the money in the man's face. “No one's happy to see me unless I've got money in my hand.”

“That's because otherwise you're holding a gun,” Peter says, dragging Deadpool away to the counter.

They pay silently, and leave.

“I should go back there and rob them,” Deadpool grouses, walking through the mall.

A few elderly shoppers glance at them nervously, and clutch their handbags a little tighter. Peter tries to smile reassuringly, but that seems to only frighten them more, and they scurry away. Peter sighs, blowing the hair out of his face. “Don't rob people,” he says half-heartedly. It's wrong to think anyone or any store deserves to be robbed, no matter how snobby. Deadpool grumbles beside him. “Wanna go get kicked out of that jewellery store?” Peter asks, trying to lighten the mood.

“No,” Deadpool says, almost snarling, pulling the hood of Peter's jacket down further. His broad shoulders are hunched self-consciously.

Peter feels a rush of sympathy. He might be infamous as Spider-Man, reviled by public opinion as much as adored, but at least he gets to take his mask off. “Wanna go buy hot dogs and sit in the park?”

Deadpool turns to look at him. Peter can't tell if he's surprised behind the mask at Peter's offer, but he can hear the gratitude as Deadpool accepts. “Yeah, uh, okay. Hot-dogs. Is that like, dinner? Are you asking me to dinner?”

“Fast food doesn't count,” Peter protests.

“It so does,” Deadpool says gleefully. “So, this is what? Our second date? Wait, no – fourth, we had hot dogs in the lab that time, and you stole one of mine before that.”

“The lab exploded before we got to eat,” Peter protests. “That doesn't count. Neither of those times count.”

“All right, but the time with May was definitely a date,” Deadpool says definitely.

“It really wasn't,” Peter assures him.

“Give in, Petey,” Deadpool says, slinging an arm over Peter's shoulder. “It's inevitable. Like gravity and awful movie sequels to good movies.”

“It's not,” Peter says adamantly. His pocket starts vibrating.

“Don't be afraid of how you feel, Petey!” Deadpool insists.

“Let me get this,” Peter says, fumbling for his avenger's communicator, glad for an excuse to exit the conversation. He scans the message quickly, stomach dropping as he absorbs the information.

“Bad news?” Deadpool asks lightly, looking over his shoulder. “Don't tell me, they need you back in the office. I hope they pay you overtime for working weekends.”

“It's a Thursday,” Peter corrects automatically, putting his communicator back in his pocket. He glances around, looking for a convenient alleyway or dumpster he can hide behind to change. “But yeah, I gotta go. Sorry about the hot dogs. Another time.”

“Okay,” Deadpool sounds kinda disappointed but like he's trying to hide it. “Guess I'll see you around. Don't let the villain of the week get their filthy hands on you.”

“Sure,” Peter snorts, amused. “You're the only villain allowed to do that, right?”

Deadpool clasps a hand to his chest. “You wound me, young spider. I'm not a villain, I'm more chaotic neutral.”

“Right,” Peter says. “I stand corrected.”

Peter waves goodbye awkwardly, and starts towards the nearest alley, where he's spotted a nice, large dumpster he can crouch behind to change. _Oh, the glamorous life of a super hero_.

He's just pulling his tshirt over his head when he hears footsteps approaching. He grabs his mask and quickly pulls it over his head, then relaxes as he sees it's just Deadpool. “Something you wanted or were you just hoping to get an eyeful?”

Deadpool shrugs. “Thought maybe you could use a hand.”

“Getting changed or fighting crime?” Peter asks, hopping on one foot to pull of his jeans.

“Whichever you want, baby,” Deadpool says with a leer.

Peter cocks an eyebrow. Beneath the heavy-handed flirtation, Deadpool seems to be genuine. “You do realise I can't pay you, right?”

“You make it sounds like I only care about money,” Deadpool says, pouting.

“You are a mercenary,” Peter points out helpfully, tucking his clothes into his backpack and then sliding it under the dumpster. Hopefully it'll be there when he gets back. “Okay. But no killing people.”

“Really?! All right! Wait, no killing, not even -?”

“No,” Peter says firmly. He feels like he should have a rolled-up newspaper in his hand right now.

“Fine,” Deadpool says, and Peter can tell he's rolling his eyes behind the mask. “I'll just shoot them in the non-vital body parts.”

Peter can't repress a small smile. Victory. Of a kind. “Okay then, let's go.”

“Yeah! Um, how? Is like, Iron Man coming to pick us up or something? Oo. If we're getting lifts, can I be carried by Thor? He's _dreamy._ ”

Peter face-palms. He'd forgotten Deadpool doesn't have a method of getting to a crime scene quickly. Maybe he could catch a cab? He rolls his eyes and mentally shakes himself. Time is ticking, and they need to get going. He can either leave Deadpool behind, or he can just suck it up like a big boy. “Climb on me.”

“What?” Deadpool's eye-holes widen. “I thought you'd never ask!”

Peter rolls his eyes and grabs Deadpool by the wrist, yanking him towards him. “Get on my back. So I can carry you,” he explains. “Unless you've got a better plan? In which case I'd _love_ to hear it.”

“Nope” Deadpool says, grinning as he moves behind Peter. “I like this plan.”

Peter huffs, but doesn't reply, too busy trying not to squirm as Deadpool hoists himself up , wrapping his legs around Peter's waist and tucking his chin on Peter's shoulder. Deadpool chuckles, low in Peter's ear. “I like this plan a lot. Giddy-up!”

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: some ableism toward Wade, involuntary nakedness at one point, blood, gore and violence, minor character death.
> 
> Thanks for all the reviews on the last chapter, it means a lot. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

It's official, Peter _hates_ this plan. 

“Ever thought it might not be a wise idea to annoy the guy carrying you when you're currently a couple of hundred feet above the ground?” Peter asks conversationally as they swing through the air. Somewhere below, he sees the glimmer of a camera flash going off as some pedestrian snaps a photo of them both. That better not be on the front page of tomorrow's Bugle, especially if _he's_ not the one getting paid.

“Aw, shucks, you're not going to drop me,” Deadpool says, and Peter can hear the grin in his voice as plainly as he can feel the hand on his ass. 

“Try me,” he says with feeling.

“You're a hero. Even if you did have a case of the ol' butterfingers, I know you'd catch me,” Deadpool says confidently.

“If I drop you, it won't be an accident. I have sticky fingers, _literally_ ,” Peter says. He sighs internally. At least with Wade, if his neck snapped he'd get better. There wasn't many people you could say that about.

He swings them down to the alley where the message said to meet (it takes a moment and a few well-placed jabs to dislodge Deadpool from his back), taking a moment to wonder who exactly had chosen the rendezvous point. It was a little on the grimy side for an Avenger's briefing. There's nothing here except some overflowing dumpsters and a side door to a bar set into one of the alley walls, the flickering neon light above it casting a sickly glow over everything.

“Are you sure this is where you're supposed to be meeting the Avenger's?” Deadpool says, voicing Peter's own scepticism. “Didn't get this mixed up with a late night booty call?”

“Not much of a one for late night booty-calls in dark, ill-lit alleys,” Peter says, looking around. “And it's seven pm, not exactly late night.” 

“It's dark, so it's night.” Deadpool counters. “Really? No seedy sexual encounters on the back-streets? Are all heroes so _vanilla_?”

Peter frowns and gets his Avenger's communicator out, decidedly not answering Wade “Maybe we're early?” he wonders.

“I got an idea how we could pass the time,” Deadpool says, smirking.

“Like I said, not into hooking up with people in alleys,” Peter says firmly.

The forehead section of Deadpool's mask creases, as if he's frowning at Peter's perplexing and inexplicable aversion to public nudity in unhygenic venues. “C'mon, don't tell me you're not feeling the romance! No one's around, the light's are low -”

“Doesn't mean our standards have to be,” Peter protests. “And they're street lights. Because we're in a street.”

Before their exchange can further devolve into yet another petty squabble, the door to the bar swings open, and Wolverine sticks his head out. He frowns belligerently at the two of them. “Webs, what're you doing hanging in the alley? And why's Wilson with you?”

Peter feels an unusual amount of relief at seeing Wolverine. “I got a message to meet here, Deadpool just tagged along. Are the others here?”

“It's just you and me,” Wolverine says. “You still ain't explained why you're hanging around outside, freezing your tights off.”

“It's a unitard,” Peter and Deadpool say in unison.

Wolverine shoots them an unimpressed look that Peter thinks is rich coming from a guy whose costume comes with those weird ear things, even if he's currently dressed in casual clothes. “Well?” he moves back inside the bar a little, clearly expecting them to follow him in.

“The message didn't specify inside the bar,” Peter protests. “Unlike you, I don't assume every meeting that takes place near a bar is supposed to be _inside_ the bar. Plus, costume? It's a little conspicuous.”

Wolverine grins, feral. “Shouldn'ta worn it then, Webs.”

“That's what I said,” Deadpool says. “But he wouldn't listen!”

“Shut up Wade,” Wolverine says, without any rancour. “Look, let's talk inside. I left my beer at the bar.” 

“Oh I'm sorry,” Peter says sarcastically, giving in and following Wolverine in. The sudden warmth as he steps inside makes him glad he stopped arguing. “Getting separation anxiety?” 

“Maybe you should try to cut down,” Deadpool chimes in. “I heard alcohol stunts your growth!”

“And kills braincells” Peter adds. “Scientific fact.”

“Great,” Wolverine growls, sitting down at the bar and gesturing to the bartender, who doesn't even blink at the sight of Spider-Man, for another drink. “Just what I need. _Two_ jokers.”

“Why is it you're also such a grumpyface, huh?” Deadpool asks rhetorically. “The way I see it is, life might suck, but you gotta laugh or you cry right?” He makes a grab for Wolverine's beer as it arrives, and yelps as Logan (inevitably) swipes at him, claws out.

“Short man syndrome,” Peter offers by way of explanation. Deadpool nods understandingly and Wolverine buries his face in his hands, muttering something unflattering about them both under his breath.

“Watch the claws on the wood,” the bartender growls, looking at Wolverine's claws unlovingly.

“Ah, gimme a break,” Wolverine demands. “All of ya.”

“Sure! Just let me know which limb you'd like broken!”

“Wilson, I will _stab_ you, don't test me.”

“You know it won't kill me.”

“Yeah, but it'll buy me a few minutes of peace and quiet, and I'll take what I can get.” Wolverine takes a swig of beer.

“So...” Peter says, spinning gently on his chair. “Not that this isn't fun, but was there any reason you called me here and not any of the other guys? I'm not really a drinker.”

“I didn't call you here to socialise,” Wolverine growls. “I called you here because I need someone to help me with something, to watch my back.”

“Huh.” Peter pauses momentarily to digest that. “And you chose me? I mean, I'm flattered, but _really_? What, were all your X-pals booked or something?”

“They got their own stuff to deal with,” Wolverine says flatly.

“What about me?” Deadpool asks, sounding hurt. “We've teamed up before!”

“Yeah, well, last time I asked you for help, it didn't so so well,” Wolverine says, glowering at Deadpool. 

“Hey, I came through,” Deadpool protests. “I destroyed the DNA samples, easy-peasy. Don't get mad at me because you didn't want your cool friends to know and Spidey's bad at keeping secrets.”

“You try lying to Captain America,” Peter protests. “Plus, you killed people! And you let him,” he adds, turning to Wolverine. “And that's on me.”

“You got a fucked up way of looking at things, kid,” Wolverine says, shaking his head in disbelief. “It's on me. I'm the guy who let Deadpool loose.

“Hey, hey, I got the job done, didn't I?” Deadpool protests, raising his hands defensively. “You could try a little gratitude, ya know?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wolverine glowers. “I'm very fuckin' grateful, Wade. Too bad it was all for nothing.”

“What do you mean?” Peter asks quickly.

Wolverine turns to look steadily at Peter. “I'm saying that base was just the local branch. There's a whole tree, and it's rotten to the core.”

“Oo,” Deadpool interrupts excitedly. “We making lumberjack references to go with your lumberjack look? Next, are you going to say 'we need to chop it all down' in a gruff, rugged manner?”

“We need to _burn_ it down,” Wolverine says, lip curling.

“Uh, I don't know about this, guys,” Peter says, feeling the need to protest before he's unwittingly dragged into one of the horrific morphine nightmares that seem to make up Wolverine's life. “How about we take this to the Avengers? You know? The superhero team dedicated to stopping evil organisations like this?”

Wolverine smirks. “Where's the fun in that?” He finishes his drink and sets his glass back on the counter. “Besides, what makes you think I ain't gone to them? I spoke to Cap. He said SHIELD are looking into it.”

“Well there we go,” Peter says. “Delegation in action.”

Snorting, Wolverine gives Peter a _look_. “You think I trust SHIELD to do this right? I trust Cap, hell, I trust Fury. I _don't_ trust SHIELD.”

“Somehow your lack of trust in government agencies fails to surprise me,” Peter says snidely. He raises his hands sheepishly as both Wolverine and Deadpool _look_ at him. “Woah, relax. I didn't say it was  _completely_ unfounded. Just, you know, maybe you're being a little paranoid?”

“Just because its paranoia, doesn't mean there ain't people out to get ya,” Wolverine growls, fingers clenching on the edge of the bar. Peter hears wood splinter and winces apologetically as the bartender shoots them an evil glare.

“And they say I'm the crazy one,” Deadpool observes. With controlled dignity, Wolverine lets go off the counter, splinters of wood falling to the floor.

“I still don't get why you asked me here,” Peter says.

“Like I said, I need someone to watch my back. You gonna say yes, or do I have to ask bird-boy?” Wolverine says.

“ _Clint?_ ” Peter splutters, offended. “He doesn't even have powers!”

“He's a hell of a shot though,” Wolverine says, grinning smugly like he knows Peter's in. “So that's a yes?”

“Fine,” Peter sighs, acquiescing. “But no killing. I mean it.” 

“Wow,” Deadpool exclaims, slinging a friendly arm over Wolverine's shoulders. “This is gonna be fun, huh? We could call ourselves the three musketeers – shotgun I'm Porthos!”

“Never said you were invited,” Wolverine grumbles, but he doesn't protest too strongly.

Peter stares at Deadpool in surprise. “You're read The Three Musketeers?”

“You _read_?” Wolverine says, displaying a level of scepticism Peter won't allow himself.

Deadpool pouts. Peter can tell even through the mask. “You could at least pretend not to be so shocked.” 

“Sorry,” Peter apologises sheepishly. “It's just, I didn't think you were the type to read French door-stoppers in your free time.” 

“Yeah, well, we all need hobbies. _Logan_ reads Thoreau in his free time.”

“Huh,” Peter says, eyebrows rising under the mask. “That's – that's surprisingly unsurprising.”

“Enough chit-chat,” Wolverine says, slapping down a twenty on the bar. “Let's go.”

 

 

“Seriously?” Peter says sceptically, eyeing the aircraft that Wolverine is trying to convince him to get in so they can fly it the couple of states over to where the enemy base is. The … Peter hesitates to use the word plane, when the words rust-bucket and death-trap spring to mind so much faster, looks like it might ex-SHIELD, but like, from the fifties, and like it hadn't been decommissioned so much as partially demolished. “You expect me to get in that?”

“Yes,” Wolverine says impatiently from inside the cockpit. “Now, get in, Webhead.”

“Do you, like, even have a pilot's license?” Peter asks, hanging back on the nice, safe landing strip.

“No,” Wolverine says, glowering at Peter as if _he's_ the one being unreasonable. Peter thinks it isn't unreasonable to not want to get in a vehicle that's going to be airborne with someone who doesn't know how to fly it, _especially_ when no one on board can fly under their own steam. “Do you?”

“No,” Peter says. “Which is why I think this mission would go better if we find someone who does. Otherwise, we're literally not going to be able to get off the ground.”

“I can fly!” Deadpool pokes his head out of the door of the body of the craft. “I mean, I can fly this plane. Just to clarify, y'know, not having a delusional break.”

“Yeah, well we'd have to be having one t'let you pilot us,” Wolverine growls. He turns back to the control panel and stares hopefully as he looks at the expanse of dials and buttons “Can't be that hard.”

“It's like riding a bike,” Deadpool agrees. “Except instead of annoying pedestrians and trying to avoid getting hit by cars, you annoy birds and try to avoid hitting things like mountains, buildings and the ground. It's easy really, when you get the hang of it.”

“I vote we let Deadpool drive,” Peter says, sticking up his hand. He doesn't feel much better about that than he felt at the prospect of having Wolverine at the wheel... or helm... or whatever the correct term was that applied to aircraft, but he also feels guilty about constantly underestimating Deadpool. The man has his problems, but he is a world-class mercenary.

“I vote for me too!” Deadpool announces, sticking his hand in the air.

“This ain't a democracy!” Wolverine says.

“We're in America, baby! Land of the free!” Deadpool says cheerily, pulling Wolverine out of the pilot's seat.

“Yeah, well, I'm Canadian,” Wolverine growls, resisting.

“You want our help,” Peter points out. “And we'll help you. But we need to get there in one piece. You guys might be able to survive crash-landing, but I'm a little more delicate.”

“Don't worry, Spidey,” Deadpool says. “I'll try to remember you're fragile while flying.”

“Uh, thanks,” Peter says, eyes narrowing slightly as he tries to figure out if he's more touched or annoyed by being referred to as delicate.

“Get in the damn plane then,” Wolverine orders once more.

Peter obeys, though not without a muttered, “Bossy.”

The takeoff goes smoothly, but it seems like that's the only part of the flight that does. It's not that Deadpool's a bad pilot, it's just that he seems to think that they're trying to break the speed barrier, when, going by the way the metal frame is creaking, they're more likely to break the plane trying.

“I hate flying,” Wolverine says, sounding miserable. He's managed to destroy the armrests of his seat.

Peter would feel sorry for him, but he thinks the only thing keeping Wolverine from kicking Deadpool out of the plane without a parachute is the nausea, and Wade, at least, is managing to keep them aloft.

It feels like a short eternity before the plane finally begins to descend. Wolverine, if anything, looks greener as the plane lowers.

“I hate landings,” he says, with deep feeling.

Peter doesn't answer, he's too busy focusing on not hyperventilating and trying to remind himself to trust Deadpool.

The plane sets down as lightly as a feather, the noise of the engines slowing and fading, until they're left in a disbelieving silence, where both Wolverine and Peter sit, scarcely able to believe they've actually survived as they listen to the sounds of plane parts pinging and creaking as over-heated metal cools and contracts.

“This is your pilot speaking! We have now reached our final destination, small clearing in forest near secret enemy base, you may now unfasten your seatbelts and exit in an orderly manner. Thank you for flying Deadpool Airways!”

Wolverine and Peter both stumble out of the plane as quickly as possible, on legs which feel like they've turned to jelly. Deadpool joins them, grinning widely. “Not bad, huh? I even landed this thing, normally I just jump out of planes!”

“Please don't make me regret letting you drive,” Peter says, rolling his mask up enough to allow him to take a few, deep breaths. It's properly night now, and the air is cold and clean in a way that New York air never is.

“You got a problem with flying in a straight line?” Wolverine demands. “What was with all that frigging loop de loop crap you pulled half-way through? We being followed or something?”

“I don't think so,” Deadpool says with a grin. “And even if we were, I definitely would have lost them!”

“You -” Wolverine snarls, claws sliding free and glinting in the moonlight. Deadpool skips backward and out of reach, one of his katanas appearing in his hand as if by magic.

“Both of you, stop!” Peter hisses, trying to keep his voice down. “We're on a mission, remember? Can we at least try to act like it?”

Wolverine and Deadpool exchange a look. Grudgingly, Wolverine retracts his claws and Deadpool sheathes his blade.

They make their way to the enemy base, as stealthily as possible. Wolverine nearly stabs Deadpool at least three times; twice for talking, and once for humming (“We need theme music!”). Peter nearly gets stabbed once, to his embarrassment. (“Don't know what the hell I was thinking,” Wolverine growls. “Stealth mission, and I bring the two biggest loudmouths I know.”)

Either luck is with them, or they're better at sneaking than they think; soon they're twenty metres downwind from the base, a large, industrial looking box of a building that screams box factory more than it does evil lair. The security seems to consist of a chainlink fence, and a solitary security guard with a dog. Peter's feeling distinctly underwhelmed, also very cold and damp, where the dew on the grass has soaked through his spandex. He peers down at the enclosure, wondering how long this is going to take, and what time they're going to be back in New York, and if he's going to catch a cold from sitting around outside at night like this.

“So,” he whispers. “What's the plan? How are we going to do this, exactly?”

No one responds, and Peter looks around to realise he's all on his own. The muffled thump of a body hitting the ground and the cut-off yelp of an animal up ahead let him know where his so-called 'team mates' are.

“Okay. I guess that's how we're doing this. That's cool. No need to let me in on the details,” Peter complains under his breath, as he walks over to where Deadpool is stood triumphantly over the prone body of the guard and dog. Peter checks their pulses and is relieved to find they're alive, just knocked out cold. Wolverine is crouched low at his side, head cocked towards the building as he listens.

“Coast is clear,” Wolverine announces, straightening. “Let's go.”

“That's it? That's your strategy? 'Let's go'?” Peter helps Deadpool drag the bodies over to the side of the building, into some deeper shadows where they hopefully won't be noticed and webs them securely up. He feels a little guilty, because the guard looks old, and it's not the dog's fault, and it's _cold_ out, but his webbing should keep out the worst of the chill and that's what they get for working for the bad guys.

“I ain't Captain America,” Wolverine growls. “I don't have any fancy strategies. We're making this up as we go along, so you're gonna have to just keep up.”

“This explains so much about why no one ever puts you in charge,” Peter gripes, following Wolverine as they move towards the door, where Wolverine deals with the lock by sticking a claw in and twisting. It's maybe not the most elegant solution, but Peter has to admit it works.

The inside of the building is as bland as the outside; a long corridor, with featureless white walls and the kind of carpet found in doctor's waiting rooms and airports the world over. Despite the bland normalcy of it, Peter feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and he shivers. His spider-sense isn't going off yet, but there's some definite tingling.

“Anyone else getting some serious Resident Evil vibes here?” Deadpool quips, sounding uneasy, fingers hovering near the gun at his hip.

“Something ain't right,” Wolverine agrees. “Security's too slack. Stay close.”

They move down the corridor, Peter and Deadpool uncharacteristically silent and serious, Wolverine characteristically silent and serious. At the end of the corridor, there's nothing but a elavator. They exchange looks.

“I don't like this,” Wolverine says, vocalising everyone's thoughts.

“What are we going to do?” Peter asks, looking around. “Maybe we can go find another door?”

“Or we could get in the elevator,” Deadpool suggests. “I mean, sure its gotta be a trap, but at least it beats taking the stairs.

“Quiet,” Wolverine snaps, hushing them. “Listen.”

Peter listens. There's a quiet rumble coming from the walls. “The elevator?”

Wolverine gives a curt nod, claws sliding free. “Get ready.”

A moment later the rumble fades, and the elevator doors slide soundlessly open.

“Huh,” Peter says articulately, staring at the empty interior.

Wolverine relaxes slightly, and Deadpool lowers his gun.

“Let's head back -” Wolverine begins to say, before cutting off. “What's that noise?”

“What noise this time?” Peter asks, frustrated. “Not everyone has the hearing of a dog, Wolverine.”

“Can't you smell that?” Wolverine demands, spinning around, nose wrinkled and jutting out in front of him. He looks faintly ridiculous, but the prickling sense of unease that's been with Peter since they entered the building has grown to the weird, jangling-buzzing that he's learnt not to ignore.

“Oh crap,” he breathes, looking back at the open elevator doors, at the vents inside. “It's in the air!”

“It's in the air!” Deadpool shrieks hysterically, clinging to Peter. “Wait, what's in the air? Love? Is it all around us?”

“Get out,” Wolverine snarls, lurching like a drunk man towards the exit.

Peter can feel his head spinning, and he wonders how the hell this is working; his suit is supposed to filter out any toxic gases, but clearly, whatever this is it doesn't work against. He frowns, not quite sure he isn't hallucinating the vague shimmery haze that's filling the air, then realises. "Nannites? Aw crap, no wonder the suit isn't filtering them out!"

His realisation does nothing to help him however, and he looks up to see how his team mates are getting on. Deadpool is sliding to the floor in a giggling puddle, and Peter wonders why exactly, while up ahead, Wolverine's already out cold.

“Deadpool,” he says, slurring. “Wade. Get up.” He tries to tug at Deadpool's arm, to get the merc to stand up, and overbalances. The floor rushes up towards him sickeningly, the sound of Deadpool laughing echoing in his ears as his vision floods to black.

 

 

When he comes round, he's naked and manacled to a wall in the sort of sterile, tiled room that suggests evil scientist rather than sex-torture dungeon, which is only a slight relief. “Not again.”

“Again?” Deadpool's voice chirps, from somewhere to his left. He sounds... more on edge than usual. “How often does this happen to you, Spidey? I'm beginning to think you're less innocent than I imagined."

Peter swings his head in the direction of Deadpool's voice, without thinking. “Deadpool? Is Wolverine here too? Do you know where - oh.” He stops mid-sentence as he gets a good eyeful of Deadpool without his costume, and tries not to blanch too visibly, wishing he had the safety of a mask to hide his reaction.

“'bout time you woke up,” Wolverine growls to his right, thankfully breaking the awkwardness. “Not that it does us a whole hell of a lot of good.”

Peter glances out of the corner of his eye in Wolverine's direction, determinedly not looking too far down, because he's already got an eyeful of Deadpool's junk, he doesn't need to see how much more hairy Wolverine is down there. _Jeez_ , but that guy has a lot of body hair. “So, do we know what's happening here? And why we have to be naked? What is it with evil scientists and stripping people and tying them up?”

“Don't have a clue what's going on,” Wolverine says grimly. “No one's come to speak to us yet.”

“They've left us hanging!” Deadpool bursts out loudly, before collapsing into hysterical giggles, hanging forward loosely in his restraints, head lolling awkwardly. “Get it? HA!” Abruptly, he stops laughing, and catches Peter staring. “What are you looking at?” he says loudly. Peter doesn't look away; he won't do that to Wade, won't pretend not to see him. Wade's hands clench helplessly in their restraints, and he squeezes his eyes shut, muttering “If I can't see them, they can't see me, if I can't see them...”

Peter shoots Wolverine an uneasy glance. Logan meets his eyes and shakes his head minutely; there's nothing to be done about Wade right now. They need to get out of here, and hope that when they do, Deadpool can pull it together enough to get out with them.

“Don't suppose you got any bright ideas?” Wolverine asks, twisting uncomfortably to try and face Peter.

Peter bites his lip, thinking, but before he can admit he doesn't actually have any ideas, the door on the other side of the room opens, admitting a single person.

“Ah, good, you're awake,” the woman says in a pleasant tone, looking up from the clipboard she's carrying in one hand. She's surprisingly ordinary looking for someone Peter presumes is the evil scientist running this place.

“Yeah, once whatever the hell you drugged us with wore off,” Wolverine snaps, glaring at her. “You want to do me a favour lady and let us down?”

The woman tsks, sounding disappointed. “Now why would I do something stupid like that?”

“Maybe because it's less stupid than keeping us tied up?” Peter suggests brightly.

“Hmm.” The woman shifts her attention from Wolverine to him, and Peter begins to regret speaking, cheeks going pink as her gaze lingers on his body. “No... I think I like you just like this.”

“Hey lady, his face is up there!” Wade says sharply, sounding more alert than he has since Peter had woken up.

“Oh, yes. Deadpool,” the woman smiles, eyes coldly considering. “You caused us quite a lot of trouble.”

Peter actually dislikes the way she looks at Deadpool more than the way she had looked at him. It's not the first time he's had some creepy villain perv on him, and if he lives through this experience, he doubts it will be the last time. So he's used to the kind of _attention_ certain villains give him. But the way the woman looks at Deadpool, so coldly and calculatedly, examining each scar and oozing sore with a detached interest and vague disgust, _that_ makes his stomach turn. Wade isn't a specimen.

“Trouble's kind of my thing,” Deadpool says, smirking and leaning forward as far as the restraints will allow, so he's edging into the woman's personal space.

The woman does not move, or seem particularly discomfited by his proximity. “You are... fascinating,” she says at last, looking at him like he's a very rare but exceptionally ugly insect.

“Fascinating, huh? I'll take it,” Wade says, grinning. “You're pretty cute yourself, if you're into the nerdy science type. And evil, but then, who am I to judge?”

“Your skin, it really is remarkable,” the woman muses, ignoring Wade's talking as she reaches out to stroke her hand along the side of Wade's face.

“Hey!” Wade protests, trying to jerk away. "Hands off the goods, lady!"

“I can actually feel the scars shifting,” the woman marvels. She removes her hand and Peter lets out his breath, heart thudding in his chest with a mixture of anger and relief. It speeds up when when she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a pen knife, flicking the blade out with a quick twist of her wrist.

“Hey, get off!” Peter yells as she leans in, pressing the knife against Deadpool's skin. The restraints bite into his skin as he struggles against his bonds, and he can feel bruises form as blood vessels burst under the skin. “Don't touch him!”

Wade doesn't speak, but Peter can see the pain on his face, fear twisting already distorted features as the knife splits the skin. The woman ignores Peter's pleading, Wade's shallow, jerky gasps of pain and the low growls Wolverine's emitting as she slowly uses the knife to peel a section of Wade's skin away from his face. The blood beads and slowly begins to run down Deadpool's face, dripping onto the tiled floor. Peter wants to look away, but he can't. He meets Wade's eyes, and holds them, wordlessly trying to offer whatever comfort he can.

“There.” The woman steps back, smiling with satisfaction. Her fingers are stained crimson with Wade's blood, and she's holding a bloody portion of skin. “As I thought.The scars become static once removed from your body. And look, you're healing already.”

The skin was reforming, visibly spreading, until Wade's face was once more nothing but a mass of scars. “It's a miracle,” Wade says, and his voice is only slightly rougher than usual. “You gonna use that to make some mini-mes? Because I could have thought of a more fun way to provide you with a DNA sample.”

The woman laughs at that a little, moving over the sink in the far corner of the room. She drops the remains of Wade's skin in the trashcan beside it, before washing her hands. “No, we don't need any more tissue samples. That was just to satisfy my curiosity. Working with tissue samples isn't the same as working with a living specimen.”

“You're a sick bitch, you know that?” Wolverine spits, glaring.

“That's Dr Russo to you,” the woman says, shooting him a repressive glare as she dries her hands. "There's no need to be uncouth."

“Yeah well, fuck you doc,” Wolverine says, teeth bared.

“If you don't need to harvest any more genetic material from us, why are you keeping us alive?” Peter asks, trying to stall. “And what are you planning on doing with it anyway? Making clones?”

“Ooo, yes,” Wade says excitedly. “Evil villain monologue of exposition!”

Dr Russo sighs, heels clicking as she crosses the floor back over to them. “You call me a villain, yet you don't know why we're doing what we're doing.”

“You just peeled the skin off Deadpool's face like you were peeling a potato,” Peter says, unable to contain the anger that creeps into his voice. “I'm finding it hard to care about the motivations behind that kind of action.”

The doctor turns to him. “Ah, yes... well, I never said I was perfect...”

“Who is it you're working for?” Wolverine asks fiercely. “Is it Weapon X? AIM? Who the hell is messing around with superhuman DNA this time?”

Doctor Russo smiles. “None of the organisations you've mentioned. Ours is one that prefers to work in the shadows, that has existed for decades, without anyone – SHIELD, HAMMER, the Avengers – knowing. We have been waiting patiently, working tirelessly -”

“So basically you work for some two bit evil organisation of wannabe supervillains,” Peter interrupts, rolling his eyes. “Great, now I'm just embarrassed. What's the betting you use some kind of an acronym for your name? Let me guess, something like LAME – legion of average, mediocre evil, or -”

“Shut up!” Dr Russo snaps, cool demeanour slipping slightly. She takes a breath, then plasters on brittle, bright smile. “It does not matter. Mock, if you like. We have succeeded where others have failed. We have created the ultimate weapon.”

“If you're talking about a sheep-catapult, I've already got that trade-marked,” Wade says hastily.

Peter shoots Wolverine another uneasy look. The man looks grim, even for him. This isn't good. Peter renews his attempts to subtly wriggle his ways out of his bonds.

“I don't like the sounda this,” Wolverine growls. “What the hell have you done? Tried to make another me? When will you bastards learn...? That only ever ends in blood.”

“You?” Dr Russo raises an eyebrow coolly. “Dear me, someone is a little conceited. No... not another you. Well, not entirely. I have to say, we were more inspired by Deadpool actually. His healing factor is truly impressive.”

“You made another me?” Deadpool asks, sounding both horrified and fascinated. “Now even _I_ think that's a bad idea.”

“Well, he's not that much like you. We took some liberties when building him. After all, we want him to be useful, and a criminally insane creation is of little value,” Dr Russo says, lips stretching as she smiles wider, seemingly enjoying the expressions of horror. “We call him Weapon XI.”

She walks over to the intercom next to the door and holds the call button. “Send him in.”

A moment passes in uneasy silence, before the door once more swings open and three people enter, the two in the kind of apparel that screams 'evil minion' flanking the third man, who is naked from the waist up, revealing a body covered in eerily pale skin, almost bleached white, and odd, black tattoo-like markings that stand out in stark contrast. The living weapon.

“Oh no you _didn't_ -” Peter says, staring in horror.

Dr Russo smiles, seemingly pleased by their reaction. “As you can see, we made some improvements. After all, we really had no need of a weapon that could talk.”

“You sick bastards,” Wolverine growls, lunging uselessly forward.

Shuddering, Peter stares, unable to look away from the man staring so blankly back at him. He can almost see the resemblance to Wade; the bone structure is the same, the eyes the same shape, but there's a horror to the creature's face that Wade could never inspire. The scars might be ugly, but Wade still looks human, in a way Weapon XI can't.

“You – you didn't give him a mouth,” Peter says, disbelievingly. The true horror is not the missing orifice, it's the implication of its absence. The scientists hadn't bothered to give the man one, because to them, he wasn't a man, wasn't a person. He was a thing, built to their specifications. What need did a tool have to speak?

Wade is scarily silent. Peter can't read the emotions crossing over Wade's face as he stares at the man, at the Frankenstein's monster before him. Wolverine's reaction scares Peter less, because his anger is simple, legitimate. Then again, Wolverine's used to shit like this. It's not the first time people have used his genes to try and create a perfect killer. You probably get jaded around the third or fourth time a screwed-up lab experiment made from bits of your DNA turns up. Peter's selfishly glad they didn't have his DNA to play around with when they tried the sick experiments this time.

“Don't you people ever learn?” Peter asks, forcing amusement into his tone, even though he feels nothing close. “You want a weapon so you make a person, and you don't think he's going to turn on you.”

“That won't be a problem,” Dr Russo says smugly, standing unflinchingly before them. “We've learnt from the mistakes of the past. If Weapon XI here does turn, we've methods of stopping him from causing us harm... terminal methods. He's hard to kill, but he's not immortal. After all, we can always make more.”

“I'll kill you myself!” Wolverine spits, straining against his manacles.

“Wolvie here tends to take it personally when people use his DNA without permission, copyright infringements and all that,” Deadpool adds, finally speaking. His voice is more gravelly than usual, and he still can't seem to tear his eyes away from the mutilated man, the living weapon. “Me, I won't kill you, not at first anyway.”

The doctor actually has the gall to laugh at that. She adjusts her glasses, pushing them up her nose and smiles, condescendingly. “I would like to see you try. Really.”

“They''ll kill you when we get free, and oh boy, are you dumber than I thought if you really think you can hold us forever,” Peter says. He's going to have to stop them, which is going to be hard when he feels like she really deserves it right now.

“Oh, but I'm not planning on holding you forever, dear boy,” Dr Russo says, still smiling maddeningly. “That would be stupid. Sure, there would be some benefits to keeping you alive... I would love to try some of the toys we're developing here on you, and there's nothing like a bit of good old-fashioned torture to stimulate the mind, but I'm afraid I can't risk it. You're quite right. Given enough time, you'd certainly break free, and that really could jeopardize everything I've tried to create here. No, I'm going to kill you.”

Wolverine lets out a harsh bark of a laugh. “Better men than you have tried, buddy.”

“Hah, same,” Wade says, jeering. “I'm harder to kill than MRSA.”

“Yeah well good for you guys,” Peter says, renewing his futile struggles to break free. “Am I the only one without a supercharged healing factor these days?”

“So how exactly are you planning on doing this?” Wolverine asks, ignoring Peter. “You gonna behead me? Drown me? Dunk me into a vat of acid? You ain't got many options.”

“Been there, done that,” Wade says, rolling his eyes. “Booooring.”

“Not like this, you haven't,” Dr Russo promises, eyes shining with an odd excitement. She turns to the two henchmen still stood beside Weapon XI. “You two, guard me with your life.”

The two men salute, and together the three of them back away until they're stood at the far side of the room, leaving Weapon XI to stand alone.

“Anyone else getting a bad feeling about this?” Peter quips uneasily.

That bad feeling only intensifies when the doctor presses a button that causes the manacles holding them to release. Wolverine's moving without hesitation, throwing himself towards Dr Russo and the two guards with a roar of primal rage, claws extended. Somehow, Weapon XI manages to intercept Wolverine in time to knock him back in a blast of crimson light that sends Logan flying, crashing into the wall and crumpling into a heap.

Whipping back round, Peter stares wide-eyed, falling into a defensive crouch. “What the hell just happened?” he demands. “What the hell was that?! Did he – did he _teleport_? Does he have _laser eyes_? Wade, do you have _laser eyes_?”

“No,” Wade answers, moving closer to Peter, and his solid presence at Peter's side is more reassuring than Peter would like to admit, as is his babbling. “But that is so freaking cool! How come the mad scientists that experimented on me didn't think of this? _Laser eyes_!”

“The proper term is concussive optic blasts,” Dr Russo informs them from the back of the room. “If you're thinking they look familiar, well, that's because we took the liberty of using the DNA of another friend of Wolverine's.”

“Now I'm really gonna kill ya,” Wolverine growls, getting to his feet.

“Please feel free to try,” Dr Russo says faux-sweetly. Weapon XI continues to stare at them with blank, dead eyes. “I look forward to exploring Weapon XI's capabilities.”

“Got a plan?” Peter asks under his breath.

“Nope,” Wolverine says, before launching himself at Weapon XI again. The weapon doesn't flinch, doesn't move until Wolverine's claws are almost at his throat, then in a blur of motion, two long sword-like blades slide from his wrists and meet Logan's claws in a violent clash.

“Okay,” Peter says, wincing as Logan is nearly disembowelled. “We definitely need a plan. Wade, this guy is kind of like you, what weaknesses do you have?”

“What weaknesses? None, unless you count a complete lack of self-esteem and a crippling sense of loneliness,” Wade answers tersely, eyes on the fight. “Damn, I feel naked without my guns. Well, and without my clothes.”

“Great,” Peter says, flinching as some of Wolverine's blood splatters over them. Dr Russo is making notes on her clipboard. “Not sure how helpful that's going to be in a fight, Wade.”

“Wait,” Deadpool stops looking at the fight and whirls round to face Peter, suddenly focused. “You're a genius, you know that?" 

“I guess?” Peter says cautiously. “What did I do?”

“I'll tell you if it works, gimme a kiss for luck!”

“Wha-?” Peter begins to say, but is cut off by Wade's mouth on his. The kiss is brief, a fierce press of lips against his that doesn't last long enough for him to respond to before Wade's off, leaving Peter breathless as he bounds off to join the fight, shouting, “Hey, ugly! Pick on someone your own size!”

“Great,” Peter says, dazed. He presses his fingers to his lips briefly, taking a moment to file that memory away carefully for future examination, then shakes himself off. Wolverine, Wade and Weapon XI are fighting, and it's like watching a very deadly dance-off between three contestants with completely different dance-styles. And a dance-off where two of the three contestants were naked. Oh, so very naked.

“Do ya wanna hear a joke about your mama?” Wade asks, ducking under a vicious thrust from Weapon XI's left arm-sword. “Oh wait, that's right! You don't have a mama!”

The weapon doesn't respond, or seem to even acknowledge Wade's words, still dodging and cutting as robotically as ever.

Wade continues, unperturbed. “How does it feel to be a shitty version of a failed version of Wolverine? That's like failure _cubed_ , bro.”

Peter can't be sure, but he thinks the weapon hesitates for a split second, and there's an edge to the blow that follows Wade's words, an added intensity to the strikes. Maybe there was a person in there listening.

“Although I'm not sure making him angrier is going to be that helpful,” Peter mutters to himself. “Anyway. Enough sitting on the sidelines, it's time I did something.”

He glances round. Dr Russo and her guards seem to be completely focused on the fight. The guards still have their guns out, but the barrels are drooping slightly, towards the ground, and Peter takes advantage of the split-second their inattention should be him and strikes.

“Excuse me! Sorry about that! This move works a lot better when I have clothes on.” Peter says apologetically, as he slams into the first guard, landing on his shoulders and knocking him to the ground. It's a cool move, with the only downside being that the man gets a faceful of Peter's crotch. Luckily, he's knocked unconscious, which means he won't have to think until later about the fact that he just got incapacitated by another man's junk.

The second guard is stunned; Peter's not sure whether by his fighting brilliance or his nudity, but Peter doesn't hesitate, grabbing the gun out of the man's hands and whacking him in the head with it, dropping him like a stone.

“Not bad, huh?” Peter says to Dr Russo conversationally, tossing the gun aside with distaste. “I mean, it's gotta be a little embarrassing that I just managed to take out two of your guys while butt-naked.”

He advances on the doctor, who has gone pale, looking around her as if she can't believe this is happening. Peter doesn't blame her; he can't believe he pulled that off either.

“Stay away,” she says, backing into the corner.

Peter rolls his eyes, “Sure. How about I go put myself back in chains while I'm at it?” He crosses his arms. “I'm not going to hurt you lady, even though I really really want to right now. So, just call of Mr Mouthless over there, and I promise, I'll stop Wolverine and Deadpool from hurting you.”

“No, you can't win... you can't!” Dr Russo screams, lunging at him.

Peter sighs, and goes to grab her, but she pulls something from her pocket as she moves, and before he can dodge, she's pressing it against his skin and what feels like a thousand volts of electricity flow through him, making his back arch and vision white out before he falls to the ground. “No...” he gasps, trying to crawl away.

“Peter!” He hears Wade cry out in alarm, and in the next second, the mercenary is at his side.

“Don't... say my name,” Peter says, weakly. “'s a secret.”

Wade's eyes are wide with anxiety as he helps Peter sit up. Whatever the doctor hit him with, it packed a lot of juice; Peter feels his muscles jerk as the remnants of the electricity work through him, and his heart spasms irregularly.

“You're okay, baby boy, I got you,” Wade says, holding Peter. “I won't let the nasty lady hurt you.”

Doctor Russo laughs at that, triumph in her voice. “You won't be able to stop me. Weapon XI, finish Wolverine and then kill these two.”

The weapon doesn't nod or give any sign of acknowledgement mid-fight that he's listening, but a second later Wolverine's skewered on his blades, blood bubbling from his mouth before he's ignominiously dumped to the ground. The weapon walks without haste over to Peter and Wade.

“Get up,” Peter gasps, trying to push Wade off him. “Fight, Wade. I'm.. I'm fine.”

“I'm not leaving you,” Wade says steadily, wrapping his arms around Peter. “I'd rather die than be alone.”

His eyes are on Weapon XI as he says that, and the weapon pauses, blood dripping down the sword-blades that extend from his wrists.

“Don't wait around,” the doctor demands furiously. “Kill them! You didn't behead Wolverine, and he'll come back around any minute now, you need to end this!”

Peter's heart-rate is slowly evening, and the shakes are being to subside. “Wade, I'll be okay,” he promises, even though that's far from certain, reaching to touch Wade's cheek reassuringly. “Please... I don't want you to die for me.”

The weapon is still unmoving, eyes fixed on them, and there's almost something in them, some feeling struggling to work its way to the surface.

“I ain't gonna leave you." Wade promises, eyes softening as he looks down at Peter, before looking back up. "You can kill us,” Wade continues, talking directly to the weapon, talking to him like he's a person, the only person in the room. “You can kill us, but you can't end this. This will never end, this will be your life forever. Killing people on the command of people like her, people who don't give a shit about you. You'll never be anything but a weapon to them.”

“Listen t' Wade,” Wolverine growls from behind the weapon, slowly pulling himself painfully to his feet. “Ain't no life, that. It's a living death.”

“Why are you hesitating?” Doctor Russo demands, face wild with anger and fear as she looks from the weapon to the rest of them in incomprehension. “You defective _machine_! Stop listening to them and fulfill your purpose!”

“You can kill us,” Wade continues quietly, arms tightening around Peter. “Or you can come with us. Leave. Make a life for yourself. Hell, I'll let you crash at my place until you figure out what you want from life. It could be fun, we'll get bunk-beds! Just... just think about it.”

The weapon doesn't move for a second, doesn't give any indication what he's thinking. Behind him, Peter can see Wolverine wearily readying himself to begin fighting again. Peter's muscles hurt and his heart still doesn't feel quite right, but he forces himself to sit a little more upright. Then, just like that, the weapon's blade's retract back and his arms drop to his sides, all the fight bleeding out of his posture.

“Hell yeah!” Wade crows, fist-pumping. “Score one for free will!”

Not everyone is as happy as Wade at this turn of events, though.

“You wretch! You useless genetic waste!” Doctor Russo snarls, looking at Weapon XI in disbelief. Logan begins to move towards her, violence in his eyes. Before he can reach her though, she dives to the ground, snatching up the gun Peter had earlier discarded and aims it at Peter. Everyone freezes. “Do I have to do everything myself?” she asks rhetorically, shaking her head as she pulls the trigger.

Weapon XI lunges at the scientist, but it's too late, he's moving too slow. In the background, Peter can hear Logan roar with fury, feel Wade's arms tighten painfully around his ribs, but they're all too slow. Peter can see it coming, time seems to stretch out, and he watches, helpless, as Weapon XI throws himself in front of the bullet meant for Peter. The gunshot sounds, and Weapon XI's head seems to explode. The sound resounds in Peter's ears as the skull shatters, sending blood and brain pulp splattering across the room. For a second, the corpse teeters, still upright, before falling, crashing to the ground.

“NO!” Wade yells, scrambling out from behind Peter and moving swifter than seems humanly possible over to the body, kneeling, heedless of the pool of blood spreading under him. Peter forces himself to move. Wade's face is filled with naked anguish. Peter can hardly stand to look at him. He moves to Wade's side, shuddering at the way the blood squelches between his toes, the way the skull fragments glisten in the light. “Wade,” he begins, then stops, choked up. He doesn't know what to say. Wade's cradling the broken body of Weapon XI like a child.

“Maybe, maybe he isn't dead,” Wade says, asks really, looking up at Peter with glistening, hopeful eyes. “Maybe he's got a healing factor too, maybe he'll get better...”

“Wade, I don't...” Peter trails off. He wants to cry. He crouches beside Wade instead, and takes one of his hands and squeezes it painfully tight, feeling useless.

Behind him, he can hear the hoarse, hysterical laughter of Dr Russo. “He's dead! My perfect killer, my weapon, my masterpiece. A failure. A failed abomination just like the both of you, the failed abominations I cloned him from.”

Peter hears Wolverine snarl, the snikt of claws unsheathing, and a brief, half-formed shriek which cuts off abruptly before Peter can do anything to stop it.

A pause, then Logan walks over to Wade's side, places a hand on the his shoulder. When Peter looks up, Logan's expression is as bleak as he has either seen it, looking down at Wade and Weapon XI, two products of experimentation with his DNA, two things that Peter knows Logan sees as his own failures, his sins made manifest.

“C'mon, Wade. We need to get out of this shithole.”

Wade doesn't make a move to stand, still looking down at Weapon XI. “We... we need to wait, guys. We can't leave him! Not after what he did for us.” He looks up at Logan and Peter, looking for some encouragement, something to fan the wretched flame of his hope.

“He's dead and he ain't coming back,” Logan says, gruffly but not unkindly.

“You don't know that,” Wade says, pleading, but Peter can tell he doesn't believe it. He squeezes Wade's hand, laces their fingers together tightly, wanting in some small way to remind Wade he's not alone.

Wade pulls his hand free and gently lays Weapon XI down. “We oughta bury him or something.”

“We don't have time,” Logan growls, pulling his hand away from Wade's shoulder. “We need to go. SHIELD'll clear this mess up. I'll make sure someone buries him,” he adds, relenting.

“Good,” Wade says. “That's... that's good.” He takes one last look at Weapon XI, then stands, face grimly set. “Let's blow this joint then.”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief warning for non-explicit reference to past child abuse. 
> 
> Sorry this took a while to get out, thanks to everyone who has been reading this and thanks to everyone who has sent my nice messages or comments, it really means a lot and helps motivate me. Extra apologies to the person who sent me an ask on tumblr asking when this chapter would be out. I really thought I could get it written sooner, then life got in the way. I hope you all like this chapter! I think the next chapter is probably going to be the last one, so thanks for sticking around. I never imagined this fic would get this long.

Operation Get-The-Hell-Out-Of-Dodge seems like its going to go off without a hitch. Peter and Wade strip the two guards that Peter had knocked out and pull on their uniforms, Peter taking an extra couple of minutes to craft himself a makeshift mask out of office supplies. There's no guard for Wolverine to steal clothes from, but he seems utterly unconcerned with his own nudity or the possibility of having to fight his way out of here without clothes. Peter protests this choice, on the grounds that Wolverine also insists on taking point, and now Peter's never going to be able to get the image of Wolverine's hairy butt out of his mind, but Logan just growls _overruled_ and pushes past Peter. Wade is uncharacteristically quiet during this. Peter glances at him, concerned, but there's no time for a heart-to-heart right now.

From then on its mostly just a case of letting Wolverine do his thing. The goons running this place seem to be pretty low-calibre, and their tactics appear to consist of them chucking themselves bodily in the path of Wolverine, as if they're hoping they can stop his progress through the power of sheer numbers. Peter suffers a momentary pang of heroic guilt over his lack of helpfulness in the on-going fight against the endless waves of evil minions, but from the way Logan's snarling right now, the man needs the stress relief; anyway, recent impaling aside, he's the one in the best shape to fight them off. After-all, he's the one with the super speedy healing factor. Peter's only human, mostly, and _okay_ , part radioactive arachnid. He contents himself with yelling, “Non-lethal force!” periodically at Logan, and hangs back with Deadpool.

“Hey, uh... Wade?”

The merc glances up. “What's up, Spidey?”

“Are you, you know, okay?” Peter asks cautiously.

“Okay?” Wade gives a wide smile and a thumbs-up. “I get to see the muscular buttocks of my ol' buddy Wolvie AND I got to see your naked tushy. I'm better than okay.” The cheery tone rings hollow though, and the smile drops from Wade's face when he thinks Peter's stopped looking.

“Wade,” Peter says, a moment later. Apparently he really is unable to go five minutes without talking.

“Hmm?” Wade sounds distracted, eyes distant and shadowed.

“Thank you, you know, for protecting me.” Peter's cheeks burn, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Not that I couldn't have handled it myself. I mean, what's a little electrocution? I go up against Electro all the time. Blast of electricity like that, it's practically how I recharge.” He shuts up, aware he's probably overcompensating. “But uh, it was nice of you.”

“That makes it twice I've saved your butt now,” Wade informs him, sounding somewhat cheered-up.

Peter's relieved enough to let the saving bit slide. “Yeah, if you save it a third time you get a home-made apple pie from Aunt May. Well, I say home-made. It's store-bought, but she'll heat it up for you, and really, you don't want to try her home-made apple pie.”

“Cool,” Wade says, nonchalantly stepping over the prone, groaning body. “What about if I save your butt four times, do I get another kiss? This time with tongue.” There's the hint of an actual grin on his face now.

Peter flushes redder. At least Wade seems to be feeling happier, which he supposes is the main thing, even if Peter is beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. Still, he thinks, that's what being a hero is about: making yourself flustered by flirting with dangerous, morally ambiguous mercenaries in order to cheer up said mercenaries. Or something. That's probably not something he should include in the How-To-Be-A-Hero handbook he's never ever going to write. “I didn't exactly agree to the first kiss,” he points out.

It's the wrong thing to say. Wade droops. “Ah, shit.” He kicks another body out of the way. The body whimpers _“Mommy”_ and curls in on itself. “Sorry, Spidey. I didn't think.” He huffs out a laugh. “Or maybe I just thought wrong. I _do_ think, contrary to popular belief. Just not in the same way as everyone else. Guess I got things screwy in the brain again, thinkin' maybe you... never mind.”

Peter feels a wave of guilt. “It's okay. The kiss, I mean. I didn't mind.”

“Yeah?” Wade says, dully, and that's just wrong. Wade's painfully hyper most of the time, and that's the way it should be. “Well I'm sorry anyway. Last time I listen to _your_ advice.”

The last bit is aimed at a section of empty air, which Peter decides to just ignore. “It wasn't so bad you need to apologise,” he says, trying to tease Wade back into better humour. “I mean next time, brush your teeth, but since we were kind of in the middle of something I'll forgive you this time.”

“Right,” Wade says, attention elsewhere.

Peter feels a vague stab of disappointment somewhere in the region of his chest, and sticks his hands in his pockets. Maybe he's being too subtle? “Yeah, so  _next time_ ,” he says with emphasis, “take a breath mint first, okay stinky-breath?”

“I got ya,” Wade replies, still distracted by whatever dark place his thoughts have taken him to. “Breath mints. Nice of ya to be so concerned about my oral hygiene, Spidey, you moonlight as a dentist or something? Protecting the world from the evils of tooth-decay!”

“No!” Peter exclaims, frustrated. His cheeks burn, and he digs his hands deeper into his pockets and mutters, “I just meant, be prepared next time we make out.”

“Good, I hate dentists,” Wade replies, absently. “Buncha creeps, sticking their fingers in my mouth. People think _I'm_ sadistic, but I'm telling you, least I don't - wait.” He actually looks up at Peter for the first time that conversation, blue eyes wide. “That second part. Did you say _next time_ we make out?”

Peter feels a small, silly grin break out over his face. “I did.”

“For realz?” Wade asks, looking like Peter's just sucker-punched him.

“For realz,” Peter confirms. “Woah!” He makes a grab for Wade's arm as the merc punches himself in the face. “Uh, not the reaction I was expecting.”

“Sorry,” Wade says, sounding a little dazed. “Just makin' sure I'm not dreaming.”

“Nope,” Peter says. “You're awake. I'm awake. No one is dreaming.”

“Oh, really?” Wade's mouth curves into a crooked smirk and without warning he suddenly picks up the pace of his walking and cuts in front of Peter, walking backwards so he can face him. “So, you wanna smooch, Spidey?” He leers.

“Not if you're going to be obnoxious about it,” Peter says distractedly. “Wade, watch out, there's -”

Wade somehow steps over the prone body lying in his way. “Don't try and change the subject sweetums. So, am I to understand what you're saying is I make ya go weak at the knees? That you just can't contain yourself any longer and you had to confess your undying love?” He's grinning, and Peter knows logically Wade is ugly at best, but for some uncountable reason Peter's heart still beats faster at the sight.

“Hey lovebirds,” Wolverine calls, interrupting them. “If you two can take a break from makin' goo-goo eyes at each other for five seconds, you'll be able to see we've made it to an exit.”

“Oh yeah. Super hearing,” Peter mutters, resisting the urge to smack himself in the face for forgetting. “Well, _that's_ not embarrassing.”

“Don't be embarrassed, Spidey! Our love is pure!”

“No accountin' for taste I guess,” Wolverine says with a shrug, eyes lingering on Peter for a half-second. “Now let's get out of here before we run into any more trouble.”

They exit the building, squinting as the bright daylight hits them in the face.

“How long were we out for?” Peter asks, dismayed, but no one answers him as Wolverine suddenly tenses.

“Engines. From above. Sounds like we got company,” he announces, claws sliding free as he readies once more for battle.

Peter groans. “I am so not in the mood for this right now.”

“Don't worry pookie, I'll protect you,” Wade announces, coming up behind Peter and sliding his hands round Peter's waist. Suprised, Peter jumps, and accidentally headbutts Wade in the chin, knocking his jaw shut with a painful click. The merc lets go and stumbles back with a pained yelp.

“Ouch,” Peter winces both for his own head and for Wade's. “Sorry, you just startled me.” The hug had been... unexpected. He gives Wade a sympathetic look, which is probably kinda obscured by his makeshift mask.

“No problem babe,” Wade says lightly. “Reminder to self; spidey-senses make sneak hugs a dangerous endeavour.”

Wolverine makes a strangled noise. “Will you two love-birds shut up?” His head is cocked to one side. “Listen.”

They listen. There's a low rumble that slowly grows louder, until Peter doesn't have to strain to hear it anymore, and then the wind is picking up and a shadow fall over them. They squint into the sky as the familiar shape of a helicarrier begins to descend.

Wolverine is the first to relax. “SHIELD,” he announces, letting his claws slide away.

“Wow, how'd they find us?” Peter asks, letting his fighting posture slump. He actually doesn't care how right this minute; he's so tired if it wouldn't kill any last shred of dignity he has, he'd ask Wade for a piggy-back.

“Logan. They've got him microchipped in case he runs away and gets taken to the pound again,” Wade answers, grinning.

Wolverine, without looking round, smacks Wade in the face.

“Hey, what gives?” Wade whines, clutching his nose.

“Next time, I'll keep my claws out,” Wolverine says, smirking a little. The noise from the helicarrier's rotors gets louder, effectively ending any conversation until its landed and the engines shut off. There's a moment of stillness and silence, before the hatch is opened and Maria Hill steps out, two shield agents at her side.

“Uh oh,” Peter says. He's not ashamed to say Maria Hill scares him a little.

“Someone's in trouble,” Wade finishes, sing-song.

“Shut up both of yer,” Wolverine growls, before sighing and making his way over to the deputy director of SHIELD.

Whatever explanation Wolverine gives, apparently it's good enough that Maria Hill decides not to arrest them, and they're escorted onto the helicarrier. Someone makes sure to give Wolverine clothes, for which Peter thanks her profusely.

“What's going on?” Peter says, sinking gratefully into a seat. He's got bruises on his bruises, he swears.

“I told SHIELD what went down,” Wolverine says, a little sheepishly as he pulls on some jeans. “They're gonna take it from here. Hill's having a look-see before we leave.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, amused, then remembers Wolverine can't see it. “You trust them to handle this?”

Wolverine shrugs. “Nah, but don't got much choice.” He grins, a little evilly. “'sides, I figure it won't hurt them to be the ones getting tied up by evil scientists for once. Plus, now I know for sure it wasn't anything to do with the government, just some regular loonies.” He turns to Wade, who's sat beside Peter. “I told them about yer... friend. They're gonna retrieve his body, you can give him a proper burial.”

Peter swallows, reliving that moment when Dr Russo had fired that bullet once more, the noise of the gunshot and the impact as Weapon XI had thrown himself between Peter and death. Another person who had died for him, another death on his conscience. He glances over at Wade, trying to read the merc's mood.

“Great!” Wade says, with a surplus of enthusiasm that just rings phoney. “Thanks, Wolvie, old buddy.”

Peter reaches over and takes Wade's hand. Wade's shoulders slump, and he squeezes Peter's hand gratefully. “Thanks,” he says, quietly. “I mean it, means a lot, Logan.”

They sit together in relative silence for about five minutes, before Wade perks up and starts chattering away again. He still hasn't let go of Peter's hand though, and Peter makes no move to remove his.

About half an hour later, Hill and her people return.

“Only one dead body?” She says with a raised eyebrow to Wolverine. “You finally getting old?”

“Not my choice,” Wolverine growls, jerking his head at Peter. “Spider-Man there made that call.”

“Oh,” Maria Hill looks Peter over coolly. “I hadn't realised it was Spider-Man under that... mask.”

“Hey, I did the best with what I had,” Peter says defensively.

“It looks like a paper bag,” Wade says gleefully. “You should change your name to Bag-Boy or Paper-Bag-Man or something.”

“It's temporary,” Peter assures Wade, eyes narrowed.

“Anyway,” Hill continues, ignoring him. “We swept the compound. My people are busy arresting all the people found on the premises.” She hesitates. “We weren't able to find the _other_ body.”

“What d'ya mean?” Wolverine snarls. “How'd you lose something that can't even run away?”

Hill stares Wolverine down coldly. “I mean we weren't able to find the body,” she says in a clipped, precise tone. “Now, either someone in that compound wasn't unconscious and managed to hide the body before we went in, or -”

“He's not dead,” Wade says, sounding oddly choked. His hand clenches painfully, and Peter has to bite his tongue to stay quiet.

“Possibly,” Hill agrees.

“No way in hell he's not,” Wolverine says. “If he had a healing factor, it would've kicked in by the time we left. I would've noticed a heartbeat. There was none. Sorry, Wade.” The last part is added almost as an afterthought.

“He could be alive,” Wade disagrees. “I mean, maybe his healing factor's a little doowhacky, but then he was created by mad scientists! He's bound to be glitchier than Windows 8.”

“He's dead,” Wolverine says flatly, crossing his arms.

“You can't be sure about that!”

Hill takes a step backward, hand going to her hip-holster automatically at Wade's outburst. Peter squeezes Wade's hand back. “Wade's got a point, Logan,” he says softly. “We can't be sure, we don't know enough about how they created him. Plus, he took a shot to the head, that'd slow even you done for a while.”

Wade looks at him, as if surprised Peter had spoken up. “Yeah, what he said. He's a scientist, he knows what he's talking about!”

“Well, not really,” Peter protests. He doesn't want to get Wade's hopes up. “He _might_ be dead, Wade. You have to face that possibility.”

“He's not,” Wade says adamantly, shaking his head in denial. “I know it. I can feel it in my soul. He's made from me-DNA right? I'd know if he died!”

“That's not how it works -” Peter begins helplessly, but Wade shushes him, pressing a finger against his lips. “Hush, Spidey. Enough science for one day.” He turns to look expectantly at Hill. “So, how many search and rescue teams are we sending out after him?”

“One, if you're lucky,” Hill says. “SHIELD have other things to do.”

Wade's eyes narrow dangerously, and he jabs a finger angrily at Maria Hill. “Listen, lady -”

“Point that finger at me again, and I'll cut it off, Deadpool,” Hill snaps, cutting him off. “And it's Deputy Director Hill to you.”

“Cut it off! I don't care!” Deadpool shouts.

Peter can't stop the gasp of pain; Wade's still got hold of Peter's hand, but he's clenching it so tightly Peter can  _feel_ his bones grinding together.

“Pe- Spidey,” Wade says, tone changing. He looks round and lets go of Peter's hand instantly. “Aw crud.” He looks repentant. “You okay, baby boy? I – I didn't hurt you too bad, right?”

“Don't call me that,” Peter says automatically, then when Deadpool's eyes widen and his face drops, adds, “I'm not a _baby_. I'm a man! A Spider-Man!” Wade still looks scared, like Peter's going to snap at him for accidentally hurting him, and tell him to get lost. Peter says, softer, “I'm fine. Honestly.”

Wade looks like he doesn't quite believe Peter, but he turns back to Hill. “Okay. Let me off this plane.”

Hill frowns. “What?” Peter echoes that question mentally.  _What?_

“You hear me,” Wade says. “Let me off. I'll find him myself.”

“You sure you know what you're doing, Wilson?” Wolverine asks.

Wade nods. “Sure as I ever am. So, like 70% sure. Wait – 68, no, 70% sure. That's good enough.”

Hill clicks her tongue, then nods once. “Fine. Do what you want, just don't get in the way of my agents.”

Wade makes a rude noise. “Tell 'em not to get in  _my_ way.” He turns to Peter, and his bravado crumbles. “I uh, guess I'll see you around.”

“Yeah,” Peter forces a smile. “Feel free to drop by when you're next in town, whenever that is. Good luck.” The last bit he adds with complete sincerity. He can understand _why_ Deadpool is doing this, and he hopes Wade finds Weapon XI, hopes that he is alive.

“I'll hold you to that,” Wade says, flashing a grin. “After all, we're going to hook up!”

Maria Hill raises an immaculate eyebrow once more. “I'm not even going to ask.”

Wade ignores her, bending to plant a kiss on Peter's head. “See ya later, snookums.”

 

Two weeks pass without word of Wade. Peter finds himself missing the merc more than he'd expected, and finds himself thinking about the things he'd said to Wade when he'd last saw him. He doesn't _regret_ reciprocating Wade's advances, really, he doesn't, but in the cold light of day, once he's had a good night's sleep, he does wonder why he did. Okay. He can admit there's an attraction between them. Wade hasn't exactly been hiding his feelings, and somewhere along the line, Peter began to return them. Apparently he has a thing for tall, muscular and overly mouthy. Who knew? That doesn't mean them dating, or even just regularly locking lips is a good idea. It's probably a Bad Idea. So bad, it deserves capitalisation. Peter's had inappropriate crushes before, but he's learnt not to how to deal with those; awkward masturbation and just hoping that crush goes away. It works for him. So why Wade?

Peter's thoughts are interrupted by the sound of someone knocking at the door, and Peter sighs in relief, rolling off his bed. He needs to stop thinking about this so much. He answers the door, hoping it's not carol-singers. Not that he hates festive cheer and the sweet, angelic singing of children – it's just embarrassing that he's got about fifty cents to his name right now, and he doesn't want to seem like a Scrooge by giving such a petty donation.

It's not carol-singers. It's Wade. He's wearing the costume, as ever, but with the seasonal addition of a santa hat and a brown sack over his shoulder. He grins at Peter. “Surprise!”

“Did you rob a bank?” Are the first words out of Peter's mouth. He tries to play it cool; after all, he _had_ said that Wade was welcome over whenever.

Wade tilts his head questioningly. “Not today! Why, do you want to rob a bank? That could be an exciting date!”

“No, it's just the sack, it kinda looks like a loot sack,” Peter says, then frowns and adds. “No robbing. Superhero, remember?”

“Oh yeah,” Deadpool sighs. “Ah well, I still love you, even if you are boring.”

“Nothing's cooler than not breaking the law,” Peter says firmly.

“Have you ever tried robbing a bank?” Wade asks.

“No, but -”

“Then that's not very scientific of you!”

“We're not robbing a bank,” Peter insists loudly. His next door neighbour, an elderly lady named Gladys, chooses that moment to step outside her apartment. Peter tries to smile but it feels more like a grimace. Gladys gives him a cool look and heads for the stairs. Peter sighs, then turns back to Wade. “We're not robbing a bank.” Peter says, quieter.

“Fine,” Wade says.

“What is in the bag then?” Peter asks cautiously. Bombs? Guns? Hundreds and thousands of fruit roll-ups? It was all equally possible.

“Presents!”

“That's not your way of saying live grenades, is it?” Peter asks, still cautious, leaning against his door-frame.

“Not for you,” Wade says, grinning. “I did send dear old Bulls a couple, seein' as it's christmas and all. He'll get a laugh out of that.”

Peter bites his lip, hesitates. “Do you want to come in?”

“You're inviting me into your spider-cave?” Wade clasps his hands together. “This is the best Christmas ever!”

“Uh, okay,” Peter mumbles, cheeks glowing red. No one's ever been that excited to come into Peter's apartment. “It's uh – it's kind of a mess at the moment.” He walks back into the apartment, Wade following. “Ignore the wrapping paper, I was trying to get ready for tomorrow.”

“Wow!! This place is a dump!” Deadpool spins in a circle, apparently trying to take in every inch of Peter's living room simultaneously. He doesn't seem any less enthusiastic.

“That stings coming from you,” Peter retorts. “At least my apartment has carpets.”

“I could have carpets,” Wade replies distractedly. He moves swiftly across the room to the door leading to Peter's bedroom, zeroing in on it with uncanny accuracy. “I could have carpets if I wanted. I got paid in carpets once, actually. Persian carpets, this thick.” He holds his fingers an inch or so apart. “Don't believe what you're told, they CANNOT fly. Found that out the hard way. The story behind that explains why I don't have carpets.”

“I'll bear that in mind,” Peter says, amused. “Wait, don't go in there!”

“Why?” Wade, to his credit, actually pauses, hand on the door-knob. “You got something to hide, Petey?”

“No,” Peter says. It's true, he realises, with a sudden rush of shock. Deadpool knows everything Peter normally tries to keep separate from Spider-Man; his real name, his address, his family – and somewhere along the line, Peter stopped worrying about it. Somewhere along the line it got to this point, the point where Peter would invite Wade in, where Wade would actually wait for Peter's permission before invading his privacy. Heck, he was even calling Deadpool Wade in his head. “Just... don't go in there, okay?”

“Fine,” Wade grudgingly agrees, moving away from the door to fling himself on Peter's couch.

“So,” Peter says, leaning against the wall and trying to act nonchalant. “How did the search go?” It's the question he's been dying to ask since Wade turned up on his doorstep, but he figured he'd wait until Wade was inside the building before hitting him with that question. He was right to wait.

Wade stiffens, pulling his legs up onto the couch. For a moment, Peter contemplates telling him off for putting his boots on the furniture, but that couch has had worse and Wade looks hunched and almost small right now, so Peter lets it slide. “No.” Wade shrugs. “I looked and I looked and I looked, nope. I'm pretty sure he's alive though.” Wade smiles, eyes narrowing. “I found a couple more of our friends that worked at the facility. They didn't know anything about him being moved after death, and from what they told me his healing factor works.”

Peter doesn't want to know what Wade did to make them talk. For his own piece of mind, he's not going to ask. “I'm sorry, I know finding him was important to you.”

“Eh,” Wade shrugs. “He'll turn up. Probably when I least expect it, for the greatest dramatic effect. That's how this kind of thing goes.”

“Sounds about right to be honest,” Peter admits, thinking over his own life. They fall into a semi-comfortable quiet. Peter debates going to sit next to Wade, or continuing to pretend that he always leans casually against a wall like this in his own home. He feels a little silly. “So...” Peter says, clearing his throat a little awkwardly. “Have you got plans for Christmas? Having family over? Friends?” _Do you have anyone?_ He winces, hoping the question wasn't too insensitive.

Wade scratches the back of his head, avoiding eye-contact. “Yeah. I'm spending it with a few few friends.”

“Oh!” Peter says, then shuts his mouth, flushing. He hadn't meant to sound so surprised. “That's good. I'm glad.”

“Yeah, going to hang out with the whole gang,” Wade nods emphatically. “Gonna see Joey; he's a real joker Joey, you'd like him, and Ross and Rachel are coming too – Ross is a lucky guy. I mean, Rachel's a little horse-faced, but I wouldn't say neigh, you know what I mean? Plus, Chandler and his wife Monica. Oh, and Phoebe, she's my favourite.”

“So you're spending Christmas marathoning _Friends_ then,” Peter says, trying to sound neutral and non-judgemental – it's not like he hasn't spent a few holidays alone.

“Yeah,” Wade looks down again, then says with forced brightness. “But hey! Nothing says Christmas like takeaway pizza and cheap beer.”

Peter snorts at that, tries to lighten the mood. “Sounds like Logan's dream Christmas. He's always growling about having to buy everyone gifts. I told him, that's what you get for being on so many teams!”

“Wolvie buys people gifts?” Wade's mouth drops. “That conniving Canute's never given me anything!”

“Don't sweat it,” Peter says wryly. “You're not missing out. Last year he gave me a six-pack.”

“That's not so bad.”

“He took it off me later that evening and drank it,” Peter explains with a laugh.

“Reminds me of my family Christmases as a kid,” Wade remarks off-handedly.

Peter glances over, but it's hard to tell if Wade's joking through the mask. It looks like he's smiling but that could mean anything. “Your dad took your toys?” he says hesitantly, tone light.

Wade glances at him, wary, then shrugs. “Nah. My old man could be _real_ generous.” He laughs bitterly, leaning forward and hugging his ribs almost subconsciously. “He always gave me something to remember him by.”

“Sounds like a swell guy,” Peter says softly.

Wade avoids looking at him. “Yeah.”

They fall silent. Wade seems lost, more lost than usual, and Peter hears his breath catch in his throat, hears the muttered, cut-off _no_ said to some invisible audience Peter can only guess at. Peter opens his mouth to say something, anything, some joke that will turn back the clock and bring Wade back to the here and now, but before he can speak, Wade starts talking.

“It wasn't all bad,” he says, almost defensively, before growing wistful. “I remember, I used to go look at the Christmas lights. All the other houses would have them up and they'd be so bright and colourful and _warm_. That was... that was nice.” He stops.

“I think my parents used to do that with me,” Peter offers, feeling the need to share something. Wade looks at him. “Before they died... or didn't die, actually but -” Peter shakes his head. “It's a long story. But I think they used to drive around the neighbourhood, so we could see all the lights. I think. It feels like a memory, but I don't know if its real of if I just convinced myself it was real.”

Wade looks at him, and for a second there's a feeling of perfect understanding that courses between them, a sensation of mutual knowing that stops Peter's breath for a moment. Wade breaks the gaze, clearing his throat noisily. “Well, this is getting very 'The Little Match Girl', ain't it?”

Peter laughs, grateful to Wade for easing the mood. “You're not really sweet and innocent enough for that role.”

“Oh, but you are,” Wade says, normal smirk reappearing. “Poor, orphan Peter in a smock and pigtails.”

“Stop,” Peter says, half-groaning half-laughing as he pictures it.

Wade grins, unrepentant, before sighing and getting to his feet. “Anyway. I should go be depressingly maudlin at home on my lonesome. It's more effective that way. Can't really get the same utterly tragic and depressing vibe in company.” He starts slowly towards the door, dragging his feet. “I'll just leave then. Enjoy Christmas, give Aunt May a smooch from me.”

“Wade, wait,” Peter blurts.

The merc stops, but doesn't turn round. His back's a taut line, braced for impact.

“You don't have to be alone,” Peter says, flushes for some imperceivable reason. He licks his lips nervously. “You can stay, if you want. Come to Christmas.”

Wade slowly swivels. The masked man is truly expressionless for once. “You sure what you're offering here, Petey? No take-backsies?”

Peter holds his gaze, hesitates for second - because really, he's not entirely sure what he's offering here, this is more than suggesting a few mutual make-outs, this is _big_ – then nods.

Wade _beams_ and that is a sight, because even with the mask still on Peter can tell it's different from his normal cocky grin. It feels like joy, and it's there because of Peter. “Hey, Petey? Remember that thing you were talking about back at the base?”

“Uh,” Peter says, thinking. “Oh.” His cheeks heat up a little. “The kissing thing?”

“Yeah, that thing,” Wade says, reaching for his mask. “Feels kinda appropriate about now, doesn't it?”

Peter's beginning to get butterflies. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Wade says, grinning as he rolls his mask up. “I'm about to take you up on that offer.” He advances towards Peter, still grinning, then hesitates just as he reaches Peter. “That is.. I mean... it's still valid right? Didn't have like an expiry date or something?”

“No,” Peter says, grabbing Wade by the costume and pulling him in. Suddenly, all his fears and doubts about this seem to fade away. They're not gone, but they don't seem so important. He wets his own lips, placing a hand behind Wade's neck as he reaches up for Wade. Wade's hands settle on Peter's waist, and he feels Wade's warm, garlicky-scented breath hit his face. _Romantic,_ Peter thinks wryly. “Did you forget the breath mints?”

Wade snickers, unrepentant. “Whoops. Garlic bread, my bad. It's meant to be an aphrodisiac, though.”

“Hmm, bringing up aphrodisiacs already,” Peter says, amused. “Getting a bit cocky, aren't you?” Peter realises his mistake as soon as he finishes, and kisses Wade hastily before the inevitable slew of jokes can begin.

For a minute, the kiss is kind of a hot mess; Wade's laughing, and Peter's neck is at an awkward angle because Wade is abnormally tall, but then Wade's pushing him back against the wall and kissing him in earnest, body pressed against Peter as the kiss deepens, and Peter seizes the initiative to reach down and grab a handful of Wade's ass.

Wade makes a noise that sounds almost like a squeak, then presses himself even more against Peter, making obscene, moaning noises that are not doing anything to help Peter's self-control. Wade breaks the kiss off after a minute, to breath, and asks Peter in a ragged yet hopeful tone, “Bedroom?”

“Hmm?” Peter's a genuis, damn it, but it takes him a minute to translate Wade's speech into words. “Uh, no. Damn,” he kisses Wade gently on the lips once more, then pushes him back.

Wade pouts, but doesn't resist.

“I've got the rest of the presents on the bed,” Peter explains. “Stuff I still need to wrap. I should probably do that.”

“Oo, that reminds me!” Wade says, slapping his head. “The sack! The sack of stuff. I brought presents.”

“Really?” Peter feels a sudden surge of guilt. _Crap._ “I, uh, I hadn't got you anything. Yet,” he adds, deciding he'll make sure to find something for Wade sometime. It seems only fair now that they're swapping saliva, that they should swap gifts too. Especially if the kissing is going to be a regular thing. And Peter's pretty sure he wants it to be a regular thing. He touches his lips.

“Eh, don't sweat it.” Wade shrugs, seemingly not bothered. “I know Spider-Man's secret, that he's just some broke kid from Queens. Not the kind of glamour I was hoping for when I fell for you, but it'll do.”

“Thanks,” Peter says sarcastically. “I'm feeling the love.”

Wade blows him a kiss, still grinning. Kissing, apparently only makes him more obnoxious.

“I demand a gift as compensation for making out with such a jerk,” Peter says, making a grab for the sack, but Wade's reflexes aren't half-bad either, and he yanks it away from Peter and holds behind him.

“Nuh-uh, Spideykins, not until tomorrow!”

“Fine,” Peter says, trying not to pout. “Tomorrow. Be here at like, eight. In the morning.”

“I can do that,” Wade says, then grins and darts forward to place a chaste kiss on Peter's lips. “See you tomorrow then, lover. I can see myself out.”

He lets himself out, letting the door slam shut behind him. Peter blinks for a moment, then lets his head thunk back against the wall. “I think I might be dating Deadpool.” He closes his eyes. How did this happen? His eyes shut open, alarmed, as he realises he has to tell Aunt May he invited Wade round for Christmas. _Well, it's certainly going to be interesting..._

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Last chapter! Thanks for sticking with me this long, it's been great, seriously. I've gotten more feedback than I'd ever expected, so thank you to everyone who read this, left a comment or kudos or sent me an ask, you guys really have kept this going. I've had a lot of fun writing this over the past year, and it's sad to see it come to an end, but I hope you like the ending. I've tried to make it funny but there's quite a lot of serious stuff in this chapter, things I felt needed to be addressed about the kind of relationship Peter and Wade have and the kind of people they are. 
> 
> With that in mind, while there is no explicit sexual scenes in this chapter, there are a few non-explicit references to sex, and there's also a brief section that could be triggering to victims of sexual abuse, although I can promise you nothing bad happens and there's a happy ending.

“Wade, you're on time,” Peter says, opening the door. He's looking distinctly frazzled and generally unprepared, dressed in a pair of worn pyjama bottoms and a baggy fantastic four t-shirt. “I was not expecting you to be on time.”

“Why always the tone of surprise?” Wade asks, pushing his way inside past the adorably sleepy Petey. Normally, he'd like to spend a little longer gloating that he's allowed to see Peter like this, but it's cold outside even wearing his thermal undies under the suit.

Maybe because we don't exactly seem like the punctual type?

_We're a comedian though - timing is everything!_

**Maybe our lack of punctuality is why our jokes always fall flat.**

“Everyone's a critic,” Wade says to his boxes, flinging himself on the couch dramatically, carelessly tossing his loot sack to one side, where it lands with an expansive crash. Whoops, there goes the fragile things, good thing we brought back-up gifts! “Anyway, we're not the ones still in our jammies. Is this some kind of secret Parker tradition you forgot to tell me about? You both have Christmas dinner in your pjs? Aw shucks, now I feel overdressed.”

“What?” Peter says, rubbing bleary eyes. He looks like he's not quite ready for Wade. “No, you're fine. I like the sweater, it's very... normal.”

“Isn't it?” Wade says cheerily. “Vintage grandpa sweater, not some hipster, mass-produced pretend old man sweater. It's even got that old person smell for added authenticity.”

“Nice,” Peter says absently, staring around his living room with a slightly dazed expression. Wade notices for the first time the strips of wrapping paper littering the floor.

“Petey, you okay sweetie?” Wade asks, slightly concerned. His precious little spider seems a little off his game this morning.

**Maybe we're catching.**

_Probably a good thing he's not totally awake, we don't want him asking how we got this sweater..._

“'m fine,” Peter says, rubbing his eyes again. “Just. Tired. Spent last night wrapping presents, and then fighting some stupid Christmas themed villain of the week. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is having to fight off some guy dressed as a Christmas elf?” Peter asks, an edge of hysteria in his voice. “Or how humiliating it is to nearly get your butt kicked by someone dressed as a Christmas elf?” He rubs the back of his neck, wincing forlornly. “I think I have tinsel burn.”

“Eh,” Wade shrugs, not really able to muster up much sympathy. “Isn't your arch-nemesis some guy who dresses up as a goblin to get his jollies? Elf's not much weirder than that. Least it's seasonally themed, half your rogue gallery look like they escaped from a petting zoo.”

“There's nothing cuddly about the Rhino,” Peter protests.

“I'm just saying: you're Spider-Man. Novelty villains is kinda your schtick, like making wise-cracks is mine,” Wade says with a shrug, pulling a knife out of his thigh holster and tossing it up absently.

“I'm funny,” Peter protests.

“Sure you are,” Wade grins with satisfaction, catching the knife out of the air just before it hits his face. “Hence the comedy club of bad guys that follow you around. Don't complain, going up against feebs like Boomerang? You couldn't ask for better material, the guy's a walking joke.”

**Says us.**

“Ooo, that stung,” Wade pouts. Boxes were being a little extra vindictive with their wisecracks lately, probably getting jealous that he liked talking to Petey more than them.

“You hurt yourself?”

It's kinda gratifying how quickly Peter moves to Wade's side, and it's almost enough to make Wade wish he had, just so Peter'd kiss his boo-boo better. Totally healthy thought process. “Nah, just something I thought. I'm only crying on the inside.”

“Oh, well that's all right then,” Peter says, with mild sarcasm. “I thought you might have hurt yourself playing catch with knives. You ever thought about getting a normal hobby? One that doesn't involve sharp pointy things and raising my cholesterol before breakfast?”

“Nope,” Wade says with a grin, twirling the knife between his fingers. “Nice to see you concerned for my welfare though, Petey. Real boost to the ol' ego, I gotta tell you.”

Peter huffs, reaching out and grabbing the knife out of Wade's fingers with quick ease. “The only thing I'm concerned about is you bleeding on my couch.”

Wade makes a sad face. “No need to be so painfully honest. There's a reason I'm delusional, you know?”

Peter sighs and drags a hand through his hair, sticking it up like the business end of a toilet brush. “Maybe I also don't want to see you hurt,” he says grudgingly.

“Aw, I knew it,” Wade smirks, reaching out and pulling Peter down. The other man doesn't resist, despite his superior strength, just crumples on top of Wade with a faint oomph of exhaled air.

“Oof,” Wade grunts, “You're heavier than you look, anyone ever told you that? Or have you gained weight? Not that I mind, just more chub to love, that's what I always say, but you gotta be careful with the spandex -”

“Shut up,” Peter mumbles, muffled into Wade's neck. He sighs heavily, breath warming Wade's neck even through the fabric of his suit. “I shouldn't be lying down. I still need to get dressed and we need to leave and -”

Pressing a hand gently over Peter's mouth, Wade shuts Peter up. “Relax, Petey. Aunt May's not gonna have a hernia if you're a little late.” Wade puts his other arm around Peter, squeezing him into a one-armed hug. Slowly, he feels the tension ease out of Peter until he's limper than a wet noodle, lying draped over Wade. “That's a boy.”

Peter bites Wade's hand.

“Yowch!” Wade retracts his hand, more in surprise than pain. “Heh, wouldn't have pegged you for a biter, Petey.”

“Bleugh,” Peter says, face screwed up. “Please tell me those are clean gloves.”

“You're in luck,” Wade grins, cheery. “Yesterday was laundry day.”

“Good,” Peter says with a groan, pushing himself up onto his elbows. He seems to be fighting the temptation to just lie back down on Wade and go to sleep, eyelids fluttering sleepily. “I need to get up. Make me get up, Wade.”

_Why the hell would we try and get him off us?_

**We've spend the last who knows how long trying to get on him.**

Grinning, Wade leans up and kisses Peter instead.

“That's not helpful,” Peter grumbles against his lips, but he doesn't protest further, only kisses him back languidly, slow warm kisses that ignite a fire between them. Sighs turned to gasps, Peter's hands sliding under Wade's jumper to run hungrily over his still spandex-clad skin.

**Told you this jumper would get us laid**

_Win!_

Wade's own hands aren't half as sure where they're allowed to go. It's like being a kid at a candy store; he wants to grab everything, to lick everything, to -

“Wade? Are you with me?” Peter asks, pulling back to look at him, tone a mixture of concern and exasperation. “What're you thinking?”

“How I'd like to suck your dick like a lollipop,” Wade replies automatically.

**Did we just say that out loud?**

Peter's mouth, kiss-red, drops open, but no words come out, his ears burning pink as he flushes.

**Good going, moron. Now you've really freaked him out!**

_Shit, backtrack backtrack!_

Wade laughs with false heartiness, glancing anxiously up at Peter. “Joking! Obviously! That – that would be totally inappropriate and probably disgusting for both of us.”

Peter stays quiet, although that might be because he can't get a word in edgeways, Wade's in full-blown babble mode.

“I mean, I'm gross, and dicks are kinda gross no matter how you look at them or what condiments you use with them, so combining the two is probably a really bad idea, right?” Wade grins weakly, hoping Peter's buying his excuses.

**Weak, dude**.

“So,” Peter says slowly, with a look on his face that says he's mentally processing whatever Wade just said “you're saying you don't want to give me a blowjob?”

Uh... “No?” Wade guesses helplessly.

“Do you want me to give you a blowjob?” Peter asks hesitantly, playing with the hem of Wade's sweater.

“...”

Even Wade's boxes are silent. It's like a fuse has finally blown in his brain and everything is quiet, and he floats in a glorious haze, for a whole five minutes, which has gotta be some kinda record in feeling good for him. It doesn't last long, as the reality of what Peter's proposing would involve sets in. “That'd require me to get naked, wouldn't it?”

“Uh, well not necessarily entirely naked, but um, certain bits would need to be exposed I believe,” Peter replies, cheeks flushing darker.

Wade's throat clicks as he gulps; 'certain bits' of him seem very interested in this – hey, it's something he's been fantasying about for years, a desire which has only grown more intense as he got to know the man behind the mask - but his somewhat defective sense of self-preservation is screaming at him to put a stop to this because someone gets really hurt. “Is there anyway we can work around that? Like maybe if I get a really thin sock, or maybe a really thick condom, or -”

“Wade!” Peter interrupts, sounding exasperated. “If this about your hang-up about your looks, you don't need to worry. I like the way you look fine,” he avoids eye contact, mumbles, “more than fine.”

Wade's eyebrows raise in disbelief.

**Makes it sound like we've got a case of acne 'stead of a case of the seriously ugly.**

“Ain't enough clearasil in the world to make our skin look good,” Wade responds absently, frowning up at Peter.

_And bleach always makes us break out._

“Stings like nobody's business too,” Wade agrees, then turns his attention back to Peter, gently grabbing Peter's hand where they're still fiddling with his jumper, perilously close to what Wade likes to think of as his Savage Land – dangerous, relatively unexplored territory that no one really wants to visit but when they do, it ends in disaster. “Sorry if I find the whole I-don't-care attitude a bit hard to buy.”

“When will you believe me that I find you attractive? I've already seen you naked and managed to refrain from puking my guts up, remember?” Peter retorts, sounding insulted. “Do you really think I'm that shallow?”

“Yeah well, we weren't getting' frisky then, doubt you had the time to really appreciate what you were seeing,” Wade retorts defensively. He squeezes Peter's hand a little, warningly, “I hate to break it to you, but I'm no model.

“I don't care! I might've dated a model, but her looks weren't what I loved about her,” Peter shoots back, sounding defensive.

"Wait, hold up - you dated a literal model?!" Wade sits up so fast he almost dislodges Peter from his lap. "There's lowering your standards and then there's pile-driving your standards nose-first into the dirt."

"Shut up," Peter says, sounding irritated for the first time. "I'm not lowering my standards, I'm, okay, _maybe_ I'm readjusting them, because honestly? Incredibly mouthy male mercenary? Didn't think that was my type so much, but clearly I was wrong, and I'm a quick learner, so -" he catches his breath, meets Wade's eyes determinedly and tugs at Wade's jumper, urging him to pull it off, "- let's do this."

Wade freezes, muscles tensing as the knee-jerk impulse to violence kicks in, until he realises that his normal response to people bothering him would involve hurting _Peter._ And he just can't do that. And he can't explain why it is he doesn't want to do this, not after he's practically been humping Peter's leg since the day they met. He goes limp, unresisting.

**Just go with it** , the first box urges.

_They say sex is like pizza right? Even when it's bad, it's good!_

“Okay,” Wade forces out, fixing a grin on his face and trying to force enthusiasm into his words. How do we sound enthusiastic again? Oh yeah, exclamation points! Lots of 'em!! Multiple for emphasis!!! “Let's do this!!!”

_Too many?_

**Dude, way too many.**

“Everyone's a critic,” Wade mutters, fingers going to the zipper at the back of his neck. His fingers are shaking, for some reason. “Whoops, butter fingers. Buttery fingers. Heh.”

“Wade?” Peter sounds concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Fine!”

**Easy on the emphasis there, hotshot.**

“Fine. I'm fine. Let's do this.” He finally gets hold of the zipper and starts to tug it down, face fixed in a rictus of a grin. “Here we go! It's all coming off!”

Peter's hand falls over his, stilling it. “Stop.” Peter's voice is so very gentle, so understanding it makes Wade want to cry. “You don't have to do this.”

“Yes I do,” Wade whispers, clenching his teeth. “Yes, I do,” he says louder, looking up, smiling desperately. “I mean, that's what people do right? In relationships? They do the do, haha, get it? Get it?”

Peter ignores his attempts at deflection. Pathetic. “We don't have to. Not if you're not ready, not if you don't want to.” Peter's thumb strokes across the back of Wade's hand in soothing motions. It doesn't do anything to calm the queasy feeling in his gut.

“Yes I do,” Wade repeats, determinedly tugging at the zipper. Peter's hand squeezes his, stopping him. “Yes I do. I mean, you want to right? It's a freakin' Christmas miracle! I'd have to be crazy to say no, right?”

“It's okay to say no, Wade.” Peter looks sad, and that's wrong. Wade doesn't understand why he looks sad.

“But I'm saying yes!”

Peter shakes his head, “No, Wade. No you're not.”

Suddenly Wade gives up, letting himself slump forward against Peter, whose arms immediately wrap round him in a comforting, safe embrace. “Boy, I bet you're wishing you'd read the fine print right about now?” Wade cracks weakly, resting his forehead against Peter's shoulder. “I mean, ugly is one thing, but ugly and won't even put out? What's up with that.”

Peter's grip tightens and he murmurs something reassuring that Wade doesn't let himself listen to. “Still,” he continues, staring fixedly at the pattern on the couch, “at least you can think of this as the trial period if you like, not too late to change your mind about whether you want to buy the full version! Defective products can be returned within a three-month window, and -”

“You're not defective,” Peter says fiercely, cutting him off, fingers digging almost painfully into Wade's back “Don't call yourself that. Please.”

Wade opens his mouth to reply, then shuts it, letting his own hands, which he's been holding stiffly by his sides, come to rest on Peter's back, fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt. “Okay.”

“You're not defective,” Peter repeats, as if he's trying to brainwash Wade into believing him. It's gonna talk more than some sweet talk to convince him, but it's cute of Petey to try.

“Sure,” Wade says dismissively. “I'm not defective. Know what is though? Your eyesight. Gotta be, only thing that makes sense.”

Peter's fingers dig in a little harder. “Don't try to distract me with jokes, Wade. Your little comedy act won't work on me.”

“Darn,” Wade curses melodramatically, “all those night classes in stand-up wasted!”

“Wade -” Peter begins warningly.

“I get it, I get it,” Wade says hastily. “Jeez, Petey, will you lighten up?” _Please_ , he thinks but doesn't say.

Peter gives him a look which makes Wade wiggle uncomfortably. It's a look that says this isn't being forgotten, even if Peter's astute enough to know to let it go for now at least.

“That's not something I hear all that often,” Peter replies,“normally it's Peter, now is not the right time for jokes! Peter, you're not funny. Grr, stop clowning around webs, we got work to do. Spider-Man, do you really think now is the time for wise-cracks?”

“People,” Wade snorts, “they got no appreciation.”

“You're telling me,” Peter agrees whole-heartedly. “Even when people actually, you know, thank me for saving their lives, it's never '...and thanks for keeping up a constant stream of jokes while you were at it! Really helped take my mind of the life-threatening peril I was in', and do you know how hard it is to multi-task like that? Plus, I don't recycle material. It's all fresh.”

Wade pets Peter's head sympathetically. “You're telling me. I mean, sure, there are plenty of mercs who got a novelty kill-style. Like Bullseye; he's got the whole 'anything's a weapon in my hands' gig, and sure, he's killed people with office stationery – big whoop! Has he ever killed someone in an elaborate set-up that featured sixteen gallons of custard? Didn't think so.”

“Hmm,” Peter remarks, narrowing his eyes. “My moral opposition to killing means that I'm probably incapable of appreciating the story behind that.”

“Your loss,” Wade shrugs glibly, then belatedly adds with clumsy reassurance, “Not that I kill that much now anyway. I'm reformed! Proof the American prison system works!”

“When have you actually served out a whole sentence?” Peter asks shrewdly.

“Well, never, but I have watched every episode of Orange Is The New Black!”

Peter rolls his eyes, then glances at the clock. “Ugh, it's already half-nine. We need to get going. You okay to leave?”

“Sure thing, we swinging?” Wade blinks. “Hah, _swinging._ We're swingers, Petey!”

“Great,” Peter says dryly. “Might not want to make that joke at the dinner table.”

“Ah, May'd find it funny, she loves my jokes!” Wade says cheerily.

Peter winces. “What have you said – actually, you know what? Screw it. There are some things I don't need to know.”

“Don't ask, don't tell. Me and May have a _special_ relationship,” Wade says, with all seriousness. “So, we swinging? Do I get to wrap my legs round your luscious body again?”

“Actually, I thought we could walk,” Peter says, almost shyly. “Although, it's kinda late already, and it's a bit of a walk. I just thought you might – actually, never mind. It's kinda a stupid idea I guess.” He gives an embarrassed laugh. “I just thought, maybe we could maybe look at the lights, since you mentioned the other day about it.”

“Hey!” Wade protests, “I'm the one with the stupid ideas in this relationship.”

_He listened to us yak about our crappy childhood? How romantic! I'm gonna swoon._

**I'm gonna puke.**

“Walking sounds like an okay idea. Need to build up an appetite anyway.” Gotta play it cool, don't want to look too eager.

A smile breaks across Peter's face. “Great.”

 

“N-not great,” Peter says five minutes later, as he almost slips for the third time in about as many minutes on the icy pavement. “A-apparently you d-don't have the monopoly on stupid ideas, Wade.”

“Stealing my schtick again, Petey?” Wade says, strolling next to Peter. Somehow he's managed to not slip at all, walking with enviable ease like the laws of science and slippery surfaces don't apply to him. Which, they probably don't, to be fair. “First the costume, then the quips. Identity fraud is a serious crime, you know?”

Peter doesn't reply, mostly because his teeth are chattering so hard he's not sure he can speak without accidentally biting off his own tongue. It's also cold, another thing he didn't think to factor in when coming up with this dumb plan. All because of some late-night nostalgia and romantic thoughts about reliving some of the happier childhood memories they shared. He slips again, nearly slamming into the ground.

“He's beauty, he's grace, he's Miss United States!” Wade sings, saving him from falling flat on his ass by grabbing him, twirling him and dipping him, somehow managing to neither drop Peter nor slip himself, dancing with aplomb over the icy ground. Peter lets himself be dragged along; at least he's not falling over every five seconds this way.

“Whoa,” Wade skids to halt, mask stretching as his mouth drops open. “Get an eyeful of that. Someone's got into the Christmas spirit. Or into Christmas spirits anyway, check it.”

It is a house which looks like the owners tried to recreate an especially over-the-top Santa's grotto from a particularly low-class mall. Christmas lights festoon every available surface, in a clashing cacophony of colours, a creepily cheery Santa figure is positioned on the roof as if crawling into the chimney.

“Santa looks like he's about to rob that house,” Wade observes.

Peter shivers, huddling into Wade's side for warmth. “Sounds about right for this neighbourhood.”

“Aw! Sour Spidey,” Wade coos, wrapping his arms round Peter and pulling him back against his chest. “Since when are you this cynical?”

“That's not cynicism, that's realism,” Peter protests weakly. He leans into Wade's warmth, and watches the lights twinkle. “This is beyond tacky.”

“It is,” Wade agrees. “I _love it._ ”

“You would,” Peter says, shaking his head in amusement. “Remind me to never let you decorate.”

“Hey, you're no Nate Berkus yourself!” Wade retorts, squeezing Peter a little tighter in reprimand.

Peter snorts, “Compared to you, I might be. I've seen your place. It's shabby-chic without the chic.”

“Boo,” Wade says. “It's homely! In a burned-out, vacant, kids-on-the-block-dare-each-other-to-spend-the-night kinda way. You love it.”

“I love _you_ ,” Peter retorts, smiling. He freezes, smile falling off his face in horror as he realises what he's just said. From the way Wade's gone suddenly tense against him, he totally heard what Peter just said _._ “Uh, I mean I love you in a joky way!” Backtrack, backtrack – “Wait! Not that – that you're a joke, or this relationship is, but it's _way_ too soon for any declarations of luh-lo – the l word!”

“Lesbians?” Wade asks, relaxing gradually against him. He still hasn't freaked out and run off, so Peter's accidental love confession hasn't ruined everything.

“This is so embarrassing,” Peter says, squeezing his eyes shut, cheeks burning hot against the cold air.

“Nah,” Wade squeezes him comfortably, and while his tone is a little forced, he's at least making the effort not to seem too freaked out. “What's not to love? Don't answer that.”

“Wasn't going to,” Peter replies, confused.

Wade laughs, throaty and humourless, “Wasn't talking to you, sweet-cheeks.”

“Oh.” Peter bites his lip, stares at the giant Santa vacantly, and wonders what else he can say wrong. He opens his mouth to apologize, but instead what comes out is “Have you ever thought about seeing someone about the voices? They... they don't sound much fun.”

Peter feels Wade shrug, his arms tighten around Peter. “Sure. Let's just say it didn't end well. Besides Petey, you know how many evil psychiatrists there are out there? It's like the number one evil villain profession, right after scientist.”

“Hey,” Peter protests, elbowing Wade, “watch what you say about scientists.”

“Or what? You'll conduct evil scientific experiments on me?” Peter can hear the grin in Wade's voice. “Seriously, though. Therapy and me don't mix.”

“Fair enough,” Peter says, threading his fingers through Wade's and squeezing. “If you really don't think it'd help.”

Wade goes quiet. “You help,” he says, a beat later, voice uncharacteristically soft. “The boxes – they're not really voices, fyi – they don't  _go._ ” He laughs shakily, “They  _never_ go. But they – they get quieter when you're around.”

Peter doesn't really know what to say to that. “I'm glad I can help. I  _want_ to help you,” he adds, with helpless ferocity.

“Aw, you're adorable,” Wade says, nuzzling against Peter's neck affectionately. Peter feels cloth-covered lips press against the exposed skin of his neck and he shivers, not from the cold, eyes closing as he lets his head fall back onto Wade's shoulder. “Really, adorable,” Wade says with obvious affection, then adds, “and you do help. But you can't save me. I know you're Spider-Man and you got that whole superhero complex going on, but you gotta understand that, okay?” He hesitates and Peter can hear his breathing catch suddenly. “I can't promise I'm gonna ever get better either,” Wade adds in a nervous rush. Suddenly, he's shaking. “I – haha – I wish I could, but I -”

“Wade,” Peter says, as Wade's voice hitches, his breathing coming in too-fast, panicky bursts. Peter twists, wriggling round until they're face-to-face. “It's okay, Wade. I got you.” Wade's clutching onto him like a drowning man, and Peter's the only thing keeping him above water. Peter rubs reassuring circles onto Wade's back and tries to find the right words. “You don't have to be perfect, Wade,” , “it's okay.”

“...really?” Wade's voice is small, and Peter is once again struck by the incongruity of it; Wade's size and strength that bely the oddly naïve vulnerability underneath the scarred surface.

“Really,” Peter confirms, pressing a kiss against Wade's forehead.

Wade's quiet for a few minutes, breathing slowly settling into a more natural rhythm. Finally, he speaks, says with a shaky smile Peter can just make out, “Wow, you must really have it bad for me huh? To put up with all this crap.”

“Shut up,” Peter says, relieved Wade's able to crack a joke.

Wade's grin grows, the eye-holes of his mask narrowing mischievously, “You can't even deny it! You're sick, love-sick.”

“Shut up!” Peter protests, fighting back a smile. “You can't hold that against me, it was a slip of the tongue.”

“I could hold myself against you and slip my tongue somewhere really fun,” Wade says lewdly.

Peter rolls his eyes, and steps back, giving Wade a little distance to get himself together. “Keep it up and I'll leave you on someone's doorstep, like a foundling child.”

“Nah,” Wade says, and it's good to hear that ring of confidence in it, like Wade knows Peter won't leave him. “You wouldn't do that. Because you love me, l – o – v – e, love me!”

Peter covers his face with a hand, and starts to walk away. “Watch me, I'm leaving.”

“Ooo,” Wade catcalls merrily after him, “hate to see you go, but love to watch you leave, baby boy! Shake it!”

Peter tries to speed up, and narrowly avoids face-planting as he slips, forced to twist his body into a pretsel-like shape to keep himself from falling.

He hears Wade cackle behind him, and smiles as he catches up to Peter, snatching his hand and intertwining their fingers.

 

“This is delicious,” Wade says, mouth full. He crams another potato in his mouth whole, then chews vigorously.

Peter watches in faint disbelief. “It is?”

“I heard that,” Aunt May says mildly, helping herself to more gravy.

“s'great,” Wade mumbles, bits of food flying from his mouth.

“Really?” Peter mutters dubiously, poking his pork-chop with his fork. It rattles against the plate. He puts his fork down, deciding not to risk his teeth.

“Well Wade certainly seems to think so,” Aunt May says, beaming across the table at the merc fondly. “You should follow his example, Peter, and eat up. You've hardly touched your food.”

“I'm not that hungry,” Peter says, still watching Wade with horrified curiosity. He's beginning to understand why at crime scenes there are always a gaggle of people seemingly with nothing better to do than watch. Watching Wade eat is... an experience. “I've kinda lost my appetite.”

Aunt May tsks, disapprovingly. “You're too skinny, young man. You need to eat to keep your strength up.”

“Like me,” Wade interjected, spewing Peter liberally with bits of food.

“Like Wade,” Aunt May agreed, to Peter's utter disbelief.

“Really?” he protested weakly. “We're not going to talk about his table manners? Also, I'm Spider-Man! In case you guys forgot, I have super strength.”

Aunt May just clucks her tongue at him and gives him a severe look until, reluctantly, he picks up his fork and prods at his broccoli. It oozes at him wetly.

“That's it, eat your veggies like a good boy, Petey!”

Peter contemplates throwing a potato at Wade, but decides against it on the grounds that being childish about food is what got him in this situation in the first place. Thankfully, Wade returns to stuffing his face, which necessitates him shutting up.

“At last, a way to actually get you to shut up,” Peter marvels, forcing himself to take a bite out of the broccoli.

“MMBF!” Wade attempts to speak again, perhaps to prove Peter wrong, that there was no way to shut him up, then starts to make gagging noises, choking on a particularly vicious piece of potato.

“Peter!” Aunt May cries, alarmed, “do something!”

Dutifully, Peter thumps Wade between the shoulder blades until the offending obstruction is dislodged from Wade's oesophagus.

“Phew, thought I was a goner there,” Wade says raspily. “Thanks for the save, Petey.”

“This is why using a knife and fork is generally considered a good idea,” Aunt May chides, pouring him a glass of water.

“Knives are always a good idea,” Wade agrees, taking a gulp.

“For eating,” Aunt May scolds, giving Wade a chastising look.

“For eating?!” Wade splutters comically, elbows on the table. “Babe, I don't know what Petey's been telling you about me, but I'm no sword-swallower.”

Aunt May tries to keep a disapproving look on her face, covering her mouth with a hand to hide her smile. Wade grins, clearly quite aware he's off the hook. “You and your jokes. No wonder Peter likes you,” Aunt May says, fondly.

“Likes me? Oh we're way past like, now it's the big L,” Wade says, reaching across the table to grab the entire bowl of roast potatoes and drag it over to his corner of the table.

“Love?” Aunt May asks, eyes widening in shock. She places a hand to her heart.

“No, not lesbians – oh. Yeah. Love. He loves me, don'tcha Petey?” Wade says, blissfully ignorant of Peter's sudden cold sweat.

He doesn't respond, eyes still fixed on Aunt May anxiously, waiting to see her reaction. This is... not ideal, in terms of how he'd have liked to break the news that he and Wade were dating, and as always, he can't stop worrying and feeling guilty for whatever stress this news, unexpected as it is, might cause her. And he can't pretend there isn't a small, anxious part of him that's worried about how she's going to react not because this is Wade but just because this is another man, and ridiculous as the thought is that she might disapprove or love him any less. After all the things he's put her through as a result of who he is – Spider-Man and Peter Parker, there's small voice that's telling him it's unfair of him to make life even more difficult.

It takes Aunt May a moment to recover, to find her voice, but then she asks, “Did he really say that, Wade dear?”

“Yep,” Wade says, around another mouthful of potato, “and not in the brotherly sense, if you catch my drift.”

“I rather think I do,” Aunt May says, almost absently. There's a brief pause, though it seems infinite to Peter, then she seemingly readjusts, recalibrating her life as she always has to fit the changes Peter brings to things. “How nice. The world could always use more love in it.” She looks up, and the expression on her face is suddenly surprisingly fierce, “My nephew is a very special man, Wade. I hope you appreciate just what it means to be loved by him.”

Peter swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, love and gratitude rising inside him, and Aunt May without looking reaches over and places her hand on top of his, a wealth of love and acceptance in that simple gesture.

“Don't sweat it, May,” Wade says cheerily, lifting his plate to lick it clean of the last of the gravy. “ get it. Really.” The last word is said more seriously than Peter had expected, but before anyone can say anything, Wade bounds to his feet. “Thanks for the eats, toots! Haven't had a home-cooked meal like that... well, ever. I'll take the plates out.”

“Are my ears deceiving me?” Aunt May says in a tone of deadly shock, “Wade... offering to do the dishes... my poor heart... can't take the shock.”

“That is not funny, Aunt May,” Peter complains, and he's proud of the way his voice is only slightly quavery.

“Yeah, Petey's right, leave the jokes to the professionals,” Wade complains, grabbing Aunt May's best china with a dubious amount of care. He whisks Peter's plate away right from under his nose, stacking the crockery dexterously, then drops a kiss smack against the side of May's head before heading for the kitchen.

“Wade, if you drop my best china, we will have to have words young man!” May calls anxiously after him, craning her head to try and keep an eye on him and her plates.

“Don't sweat it babe, I could juggle with these babies no problem!”

“Don't even think about it!” May calls back, then turns to look at Peter. He swallows and looks back at her. They wait until the sounds of running water can be heard coming from the kitchen, then Aunt May asks quietly, “So it's true? What Wade says?”

Peter hesitates, then nods. “Yes, we're dating. I'm sorry, Aunt May, I meant to tell you, I really did, but I just didn't seem to find the right time -” - or the right words, he adds silently.

Aunt May as always, seems to know even the things he's not saying. She pats him hand comfortingly. “You know I will always love you, don't you Peter? That I couldn't love you more than if you'd been born my son, and I will always love you, no matter what?”

Peter nods, slightly overwhelmed.

“Good,” Aunt May says, squeezing his hands. “Good. So now, all I want to ask is, do you love him?”

“Love?” Peter squeaks. “Uh, that's uh – that's big. I mean, I love you, and I love donuts, and do I really have space in my heart for more love? I mean, there's ring donuts and -”

“Peter,” Aunt May talks over him, still quiet but firmly, “enough about donuts for goodness sake. Stop deflecting with your silly jokes and tell me.”

Peter deflates. “I had a whole punchline worked out, it was really funny.”

“I'm sure it was,” Aunt May says, supportively.

“Are you sure you wouldn't rather hear the joke?”

“I'm sure, Peter.”

“Okay,” he stares down at the table. “...maybe? I – I'm not sure, but I think I might.”

“Oh, Peter,” Aunt May says, moving round the table to hug him. “That's all I need to hear. If you care about him this strongly, then I have no reservations about the two or you dating.”

A sudden crash comes from the kitchen, followed by an ominous silence. Peter lets out a sigh of relief, glad for something to distract attention. It's good attention, but it's still a little too much.

“There goes the china,” Aunt May says with a sigh.

“Not going to change your mind about him?”

“Not going to change my mind,” Aunt May says, straightening up as Wade sheepishly appears in the doorway.

“I uh, I can explain!” Wade begins, holding up a soap-sudsy hand pre-emptively. “It was ninjas! Er, in the kitchen! Fear not, for I have chased them away. The only casualties were two plates, caught in the crossfire.”

“Is that so?” Aunt May asks, raising an eyebrow.

“...presents?” Wade says, grinning charmingly.

“Okay,” May says, moving over to the couch. “Who wants to go first?”

“Ooo, open mine, open mine!” Wade says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He bounds across the room, grabbing his 'loot' sack, and drags it over to the couch. “Well, actually, they're all from me and Petey.”

“Oh my,” Aunt May says faintly. “Are these all for me? You shouldn't have, both of you.”

Peter looks in surprise at Wade; he hadn't realised Wade had gotten round to finishing the Christmas shopping they'd started doing together. “It was no bother, really.”

“And you deserve it!” Wade insists, eagerly pulling out presents and laying them at Aunt May's feet.

“You're very sweet, Wade,” Aunt May says, smiling. She bends over and impulsively kisses him on the cheek.

“Woah, woah, woah!” Wade grins, fanning himself. “Did you see that, Petey? You better be careful I don't leave you for your Aunt!”

Peter rolls his eyes and moves over to sit on the armchair opposite. “Like she'd go out with a loser like you, Wade.”

“Says the guy dating me,” Wade points out gleefully.

Peter shrugs, “I've made my peace with it.”

“How sweet,” Wade coos, leaning back against Peter's legs. “Ooo, open the squishy one first!”

Aunt May dutifully begins picking at the sellotape, carefully peeling it free from the surprisingly immaculately wrapped gifts.

“Not like that! Tear into it!” Wade boos, watching.

“No heckling,” Peter says, lightly whacking the back of Wade's head.

“Thank you, Peter dear,” Aunt May says mildly, sliding the wrapping paper off. Inside, it's the cashmere jumper they'd picked out together. Aunt May gasps, “Oh my. Boys, you shouldn't have!” She cuddles it to her, stroking the fabric with marvel. “Oh, it's lovely!”

“Open the next one,” Wade orders like a cheerful tyrant. Aunt May ignore him to continue admiring her new jumper.

Peter's heart warms at the sight, and he suddenly feels content. He reaches down and grabs Wade's hand, and his boyfriend turns to look up at him inquiringly. Peter ignores the questioning look, the faint uncertainty and leans to press a faint kiss against Wade's lips. “Merry Christmas,” he murmurs, pulling back with a smile.

 


End file.
